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MUSLIN 


WORKS  BY  GEORGE  MOORE 
A  MODERN  LOVER. 

a  mummer's  WIFE. 

A  DRAMA  IN  MUSLIN. 

SPRING    DAYS. 

CONFESSIONS   OF    A   YOUNG   MAN. 

ESTHER  WATERS. 

ESTHER  WATERS  (PLAY). 

CELIBATES. 

EVELYN  INNES. 

SISTER  TERESA. 

MODERN  PAINTING. 

IMPRESSIONS  AND  OPINIONS. 

THE  LAKE. 

THE  STRIKE  AT  ARLINGFORD. 

MEMOIRS  OF  MY  DEAD  LIFE. 

HAIL  AND  FAREWELL: 

I  II  III 

AVE.  SALVE.  VALE. 


MUSLIN 


* 


BY 


GEORGE    MOORE 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1915 


i 


Originally  publisJied  under  the  title  of 

'  A  Drama  in  Muslin,'  1886. 
New  Edition,  September,  1915. 


PRINTED    IN    GREAT    BRITAIN. 


0 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOH 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  I 


PREFACE 

'Y  excuse  for  modifying  the  title  of  this 
book   is,  that  A  Drama  in  Muslin   has 
long  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  vulgar  one 
among   the    titles  of  my  many  books. 
But  to  change  the  title  of  a  book  that  has  been  in 
circulation,  however  precarious,  for  more  than  thirty 
years,  is  not  permissible,  and  that  is  why  I  rejected 
the  many  titles  that  rose  up  in  my  mind  while  cor- 
recting the  proofs  of  this  new  edition.     In  Neophytes, 
Debutantes,  and  The  Bailing  of  Mrs.  Barton,  readers 
would  have  divined  a  new  story,  but  the  dropping 
out    of    the    unimportant   word    'drama'    will    not 
deceive  the  most  casual  follower  of  literature.     The 
single  word  '  muslin  '  is  enough.    Mousseline  would  be 
more  euphonious,  a  fuller,  richer  word ;  and  Bal  Blanc, 
besides    being  more  picturesque,  would  convey  my 
meaning  ;  but  a  shade  of  meaning  is  not  sufficient 
justification  for  the  use  of  French  titles  or  words,  for 
they  lessen  the  taste  of  our  language  ;  we  don't  get 
the    smack,    and    Milord's    epigrams    poisoned    my 
memory  of  A  Drama  in  Muslin,     But  they  cannot  be 
omitted  without  much  re-writing,  I  said,  and  remem- 
bering my  oath  never  to  attempt  the  re -writing  of 
an  old  book  again,  I  fell  back  on  the  exclusion  of  A 
Drama  in  Muslin  as  the  only  way  out  of  the  dilemma. 


vi  PREFACE 

A  wavering  resolution  was  precipitated  by  recollection 
of  some  disgraceful  pages,  but  a  moment  after  I  was 
thinking  that  the  omission  of  the  book  would  create 
a  hiatus.  A  Drama  in  Muslin,  I  reflected,  is  a  link 
between  two  styles  ;  and  a  book  that  has  achieved  any 
notoriety  cannot  be  omitted  from  a  collected  edition, 
so  my  publishers  said,  and  they  harped  on  this  string, 
until  one  day  I  flung  myself  out  of  their  office  and 
rattled  down  the  stairs  muttering,  '  What  a  smell  of 
shop  !'  But  in  the  Strand  near  the  Cecil  Inn,  the 
thought  glided  into  my  mind  that  the  pages  that 
seemed  so  disgraceful  in  memory  might  not  seem  so 
in  print,  '  and  the  only  way  to  find  out  if  this  be  so,' 
the  temptation  continued,  '  will  be  to  ask  the  next 
policeman  the  way  to  Charing  Cross  Road.'  Another 
saw  me  over  a  dangerous  crossing  (London  is  the 
best  policed  city  in  Europe),  a  third  recommended 
a  shop  f  over  yonder:  you've  just  passed  it  by,  sir.' 
'  Thank  you,  thank  you,'  I  cried  back,  and  no  sooner 
was  I  on  the  other  side  than,  overcome  by  shyness, 
as  always  in  these  stores  of  dusty  literature,  I  asked 
for  the  Drama  in  Muslin,  pronouncing  the  title  so 
timidly  that  the  bookseller  guessed  me  at  once  to 
be  the  author,  and  began  telling  of  the  books  that 
were  doing  well  in  first  editions.  '  If  I  had  any 
I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  ?'  he  mentioned  several 
he  would  be  glad  to  buy.  Whereupon  in  turn  I 
grew  confidential  and  confided  to  him  my  present 
dilemma,  failing,  however,  to  dissuade  him  from  his 
opinion  that  A  Drama  in  Muslin  ought  to  be  included. 
'  Any  corrections  you  make  in  the  new  edition  will 
keep  up  the  price  of  the  old,'  he  added  as  he  wrapped 
up   the  brown  paper   parcel.     '  You   will   like   the 


PREFACE  vii 

book  better  than  you  think  for.'  '  Thank  you, 
thank  you,'  I  cried  after  me,  and  hopped  into  a  taxi, 
unsuspicious  that  I  carried  a  delightful  evening 
under  my  arm.  A  comedy  novel,  written  with 
sprightliness  and  wit,  I  said,  as  I  turned  to  the 
twentieth  page,  and  it  needs  hardly  any  editing.  A 
mere  re-tying  of  a  few  bows  that  the  effluxion  of 
time  has  untied,  or  were  never  tied  by  the  author, 
who,  if  I  remember  right,  used  to  be  less  careful  of 
his  literary  appearance  than  his  prefacer,  neglecting 
to  examine  his  sentences,  and  to  scan  them  as  often 
as  one  might  expect  from  an  admirer,  not  to  say 
disciple,  of  Walter  Pater. 

An  engaging  young  man  rose  out  of  the  pages  of 
his  book,  one  that  Walter  Pater  would  admire  (did 
admire),  one  that  life,  I  added,  seems  to  have  affected 
through  his  senses  violently,  and  who  was  (may  we 
say  therefore)  a  little  over  anxious  to  possess  himself 
of  a  vocabulary  which  would  suffer  him  to  tell  all  he 
saw,  heard,  smelt  and  touched. 

Upon  this  sudden  sympathy  the  book,  of  which  I 
had  read  but  twenty  pages,  dropped  on  my  knees,  and 
I  sat  engulfed  in  a  reverie  of  the  charming  article  1 
should  have  written  about  this  book  if  it  had  come 
to  me  for  review.  '  But  it  couldn't  have  come  to 
me,'  I  reflected,  'for  myself  and  the  young  man 
that  wrote  it  were  not  contemporaries.'  It  would 
be  true,  however,  to  say  that  our  lives  overlapped ; 
but  when  did  the  author  of  the  Drama  in  Muslin  dis- 
appear from  literature  ?  His  next  book  was  Con- 
fessions of  a  Young  Man.  It  was  followed  by  Spring 
Days  ;  he  must  have  died  in  the  last  pages  of  that 
story,  for  we  find  no  trace  of  him  in  Esther  Waters  ! 


viii  PREFACE 

And  my  thoughts,  dropping  away  from  the  books  he 
had  written,  began  to  take  pleasure  in  the  ridiculous 
appearance  that  the  author  of  A  Drama  in  Muslin 
presented  in  the  mirrors  of  Dublin  Castle  as  he 
tripped  down  the  staircases  in  early  morning.  And 
a  smile  played  round  my  lips  as  I  recalled  his  lank 
yellow  hair  (often  standing  on  end),  his  sloping 
shoulders  and  his  female  hands — a  strange  appearance 
which  a  certain  vivacity  of  mind  sometimes  rendered 
engaging. 

He  was  writing  at  that  time  A  Mummer  s  Wife 
in  his  bedroom  at  the  Shelbourne  Hotel,  and  I 
thought  how  different  were  the  two  visions,  A 
Mummer's  Wife  and  A  Drama  in  Muslin,  and  how 
the  choice  of  these  two  subjects  revealed  him  to  me. 
'  It  was  life  that  interested  him  rather  than  the 
envelope,'  I  said.  '  He  sought  Alice  Barton's  heart 
as  eagerly  as  Kate  Ede's  ;'  and  my  heart  went  out  to 
the  three  policemen  to  whose  assiduities  I  owed  this 
pleasant  evening,  all  alone  with  my  cat  and  my  im- 
mediate ancestor  ;  and  as  I  sat  looking  into  the  fire 
I  fell  to  wondering  how  it  was  that  the  critics  of  the 
'eighties  could  have  been  blind  enough  to  dub  him 
an  imitator  of  Zola.  l  A  soul  searcher,  if  ever  there 
was  one,'  I  continued,  '  whose  desire  to  write  well  is 
apparent  on  every  page,  a  headlong,  eager,  uncertain 
style  (a  young  hound  yelping  at  every  trace  of  scent), 
but  if  we  look  beneath  the  style  we  catch  sight  of 
the  young  man's  true  self,  a  real  interest  in  religious 
questions  and  a  hatred  as  lively  as  Ibsen's  of  the 
social  conventions  that  drive  women  into  the  marriage 
market.  It  seems  strange,'  I  said,  abandoning  myself 
to  recollection,  c  that  the  critics  of  the  'eighties  failed 


PREFACE  ix 

to  notice  that  the  theme  of  A  Drama  in  Muslin  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  Doll's  House;  the  very  title  should 
have  pointed  this  out  to  them.'  But  they  were  not 
interested  in  themes  but  in  morality,  and  how  they 
might  crush  a  play  which,  if  it  were  uncrushed  by 
them,  would  succeed  in  undermining  the  foundations 
of  society — their  favourite  phrase  at  the  time,  it 
entered  into  every  article  written  about  the  Doll's 
House — and,  looking  upon  themselves  as  the  saviours 
of  society,  these  master-builders  kept  on  staying  and 
propping  the  damaged  construction  till  at  length 
they  were  joined  by  some  dramatists  and  story-tellers 
who  feared  with  them  for  the  '  foundations  of  society,' 
and  these  latter  set  themselves  the  task  of  devising 
new  endings  that  would  be  likely  to  catch  the  popular 
taste  and  so  mitigate  the  evil,  the  substitution  of  an 
educational  motive  for  a  carnal  one.  For  Nora  does 
not  leave  her  husband  for  a  lover,  but  to  educate 
herself.  The  critics  were  used  to  lovers,  and  what 
we  are  used  to  is  bearable,  but  a  woman  who  leaves 
her  husband  and  her  children  for  school-books  is 
unbearable,  and  much  more  immoral  than  the  usual 
little  wanton.  So  the  critics  thought  in  the  'eighties, 
and  they  thought  truly,  if  it  be  true  that  morality 
and  custom  are  interchangeable  terms.  The  critics 
were  right  in  a  way  :  everybody  is  right  in  a  way, 
for  nothing  is  wholly  right  and  nothing  wholly 
wrong,  a  truth  often  served  up  by  philosophers  ;  but 
the  public  has  ever  eschewed  it,  and  perhaps  our 
argument  will  be  better  appreciated  if  we  dilute  this 
truth  a  little,  saying  instead  that  it  is  the  telling 
that  makes  a  story  true  or  false,  and  that  the  dramatic 
critics  of  the  'eighties  were  not  altogether  as  wrong 


x  PREFACE 

as  Mr.  Archer  imagined  them  to  be,  but  failed  to 
express  themselves. 

The  public  is  without  power  of  expression,  and  it 
felt  that  it  was  being  fooled  for  some  purpose  not 
very  apparent  and  perhaps  anarchical.  Nor  is  a 
sudden  revelation  very  convincing  in  modern  times. 
In  the  space  of  three  minutes,  Nora,  who  has  been 
her  husband's  sensual  toy,  and  has  taken  pleasure 
in  being  that,  and  only  that,  leaves  her  husband 
and  her  children,  as  has  been  said,  for  school-books. 
A  more  arbitrary  piece  of  stage  craft  was  never 
devised  ;  but  it  was  not  the  stage  craft  the  critics 
were  accustomed  to,  and  the  admirers  of  Ibsen  did 
not  dare  to  admit  that  he  had  devised  Nora  to 
cry  aloud  that  a  woman  is  more  than  a  domestic 
animal.  It  would  have  been  fatal  for  an  apostle  or 
even  a  disciple  to  admit  the  obvious  fact  that  Ibsen 
was  a  dramatist  of  moral  ideas  rather  than  of  sensuous 
emotions ;  and  there  was  nobody  in  the  'eighties  to 
explain  the  redemption  of  Ibsen  by  his  dialogue, 
the  strongest  and  most  condensed  ever  written,  yet 
coming  off  the  reel  like  silk.  A  wonderful  thread, 
that  never  tangles  in  his  hands.  Ibsen  is  a  magical 
weaver,  and  so  closely  does  he  weave  that  we  are 
drawn  along  in  the  net  like  fishes. 

But  it  is  with  the  subject  of  the  DolCs  House  rather 
than  with  the  art  with  which  it  is  woven  that  we  are 
concerned  here.  The  subject  of  A  Drama  in  Muslin 
is  the  same  as  that  of  A  DolTs  House,  and  for  this 
choice  of  subject  I  take  pi-ide  in  my  forerunner.  It 
was  a  fine  thing  for  a  young  man  of  thirty  to  choose 
the  subject  instinctively  that  Ibsen  had  chosen  a  few 
years  before  ;  it  is  a  feather  in  his  cap  surely  ;  and  I 


PREFACE  xi 

remember  with  pleasure  that  he  was  half  through 
his  story  when  Dr.  Aveling  read  him  the  first 
translation  of  A  Doll's  House,  a  poor  thing,  done  by 
a  woman,  that  withheld  him  from  any  appreciation 
of  the  play.  The  fact  that  he  was  writing  the  same 
subject  from  an  entirely  different  point  of  view 
prejudiced  him  against  Ibsen  ;  and  the  making  of  a 
woman  first  in  a  sensual  and  afterward  transferring 
her  into  an  educational  mould  with  a  view  to  obtain- 
ing an  instrument  to  thunder  out  a  given  theme 
could  not  be  else  than  abhorrent  to  one  whose  art, 
however  callow,  was  at  least  objective.  In  the 
Doll's  House  Ibsen  had  renounced  all  objectivity. 
It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  further  apologies 
are  necessary  for  my  predecessor's  remark  to  Dr. 
Aveling  after  the  reading  that  he  was  engaged  in 
moulding  a  woman  in  one  of  Nature's  moulds.  '  A 
puritan/  he  said,  '  I  am  writing  of,  but  not  a  sexless 
puritan,  and  if  women  cannot  win  their  freedom 
without  leaving  their  sex  behind  they  had  better 
remain  slaves,  for  a  slave  with  his  sex  is  better  than 
a  free  eunuch ;'  and  he  discoursed  on  the  book  he 
was  writing,  convinced  that  Alice  Barton  represented 
her  sex  better  than  the  archetypal  hieratic  and 
clouded  figure  of  Nora  which  Ibsen  had  dreamed 
so  piously,  allowing,  he  said,  memories  of  Egyptian 
sculpture  to  mingle  with  his  dreams. 

My  ancestor  could  not  have  understood  the  Doll's 
House  while  he  was  writing  A  Drama  in  Muslin,  not 
even  in  Mr.  Archer's  translation  ;  he  was  too  absorbed 
in  his  craft  at  that  time,  in  observing  and  remember- 
ing life,  to  be  interested  in  moral  ideas.  And  his 
portrait  of  Alice  Barton  gives  me  much  the  same  kind 


xii  PREFACE 

of  pleasure  as  a  good  drawing.  She  keeps  her  place 
in  the  story,  moving  through  it  with  quiet  dignity, 
commanding  our  sympathy  and  respect  always,  and 
for  her  failure  to  excite  our  wonder  like  Nora  we 
may  say  that  the  author's  design  was  a  comedy,  and 
that  in  comedy  the  people  are  not  and  perhaps 
should  not  be  above  life  size.  But  why  apologize 
for  what  needs  no  apology  ?  Alice  Barton  is  a 
creature  of  conventions  and  prejudices,  not  her 
mother's  but  her  own ;  so  far  she  had  freed  herself, 
and  it  may  well  be  that  none  obtains  a  wider  liberty. 
She  leaves  her  home  with  the  dispensary  doctor, 
who  has  bought  a  small  practice  in  Notting  Hill,  and 
the  end  seems  a  fulfilment  of  the  beginning.  The 
author  conducts  her  to  the  door  of  womanhood,  and 
there  he  leaves  her  with  the  joys  and  troubles,  no 
doubt,  of  her  new  estate ;  but  with  these  he  appar- 
ently does  not  consider  himself  to  be  concerned, 
though  he  seems  to  have  meditated  at  this  time  a 
sort  of  small  comedie  humaine — small,  for  he  must 
have  known  that  he  could  not  withstand  the  strain 
of  Balzac's  shifts  of  fourteen  hours.  We  are  glad  he 
was  able  to  conquer  the  temptation  to  imitate,  yet 
we  cannot  forego  a  regret  that  he  did  not  turn  to 
Violet  Scully  that  was  and  look  into  the  married  life 
of  the  Marchioness  of  Kilcarney — her  grey  intense 
eyes  shining  through  a  grey  veil,  and  her  delightful 
thinness — her  epicene  bosom  and  long  thighs  are 
the  outward  signs  of  a  temper,  constant  perhaps,  but 
not  narrow.  He  would  have  been  able  to  discover 
an  intrigue  of  an  engaging  kind  in  her,  and  the 
thinking  out  of  the  predestined  male  would  have 
been  as  agreeable  a  task  as  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  man 


PREFACE  xiii 

of  letters.  And  being  a  young  man  he  would  begin 
by  considering  the  long  series  of  poets,  painters  and 
musicians,  he  had  read  of  in  Balzac's  novels,  but  as 
none  of  these  would  be  within  the  harmony  of 
Violet's  perverse  humour,  he  would  turn  to  life,  and 
presently  a  vague  shaggy  shape  would  emerge  from 
the  back  of  his  mind,  but  it  would  refuse  to  condense 
into  any  recognizable  face ;  which  is  as  well,  perhaps, 
else  I  might  be  tempted  to  pick  up  this  forgotten 
flower,  though  I  am  fain  to  write  no  more  long 
stories. 

But  though  we  regret  that  the  author  of  Muslin 
did  not  gather  this  Violet  for  his  literary  buttonhole, 
let  no  one  suggest  that  the  old  man  should  return 
to  his  Springtime  to  do  what  the  young  man  left 
undone.  Our  gathering-time  is  over,  and  we  are 
henceforth  prefacers.  The  Brook  Cherith  is  our  last. 
Some  may  hear  this  decision  with  sorrow,  but  we 
have  wi-itten  eighteen  books,  which  is  at  least  ten 
too  many,  and  none  shall  persuade  us  to  pick  up  the 
burden  of  another  long  story.  We  swear  it  and 
close  our  ears  to  our  admirers,  and  to  escape  them 
we  plunge  into  consideration  of  Violet's  soul  and  her 
aptitudes,  saying,  and  saying  well,  that  if  polygamy 
thrives  with  Mohammedanism  in  the  East,  polyandry 
has  settled  down  in  the  West  with  Clmstianity,  and 
that  since  Nora  slammed  the  door  the  practice  of 
acquiring  a  share  in  a  woman's  life,  rather  than  in- 
sisting on  the  whole  of  it,  has  caught  such  firm  root 
in  our  civilization  that  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  every  married  woman  to-day  will  admit  she 
could  manage  two  men  better  than  her  husband 
could  manage  two  wives.     If  we  inquire  still  further, 


xiv  PREFACE 

we  submit,  and  confidently,  that  every  woman 
— saint  or  harlot,  it  matters  not  which — would 
confess  she  would  prefer  to  live  with  two  men 
rather  than  share  her  husband  with  another  woman. 
All  women  are  of  one  mind  on  this  subject;  it  is 
the  one  thing  on  which  they  all  agree  irrespective 
of  creed  or  class,  so  these  remarks  barely  concern 
them  ;  but  should  male  eyes  fall  on  this  page,  and 
if  in  the  pride  of  his  heart  he  should  cry  out,  '  This 
is  not  so,'  I  would  have  him  make  application  to  his 
wife  or  sister,  and  if  he  possess  neither  he  may  dis- 
cover the  truth  in  his  own  mind.  Let  him  ask  him- 
self if  it  could  be  otherwise,  since  our  usage  and 
wont  is  that  a  woman  shall  prepare  for  the  recep- 
tion of  visitors  by  adorning  her  rooms  with  flowers 
and  dressing  herself  in  fine  linen  and  silk  attire,  and 
be  to  all  men  alike  as  they  come  and  go.  She  must 
cover  all  with  winning  glances,  and  beguile  all  with 
seductive  eyes  and  foot,  and  talk  about  love,  though, 
perhaps  she  would  prefer  to  think  of  one  who  is  far 
away.  Men  do  not  live  under  such  restraint.  A 
man  may  reserve  all  his  thoughts  for  his  mistress, 
but  the  moment  he  leaves,  his  mistress  must  begin 
to  cajole  the  new-comer,  however  indifferent  he  may 
be  to  her.  The  habit  of  her  life  is  to  cajole,  to 
please,  to  inspire,  if  possible,  and  if  she  be  not  a 
born  coquette  she  becomes  one,  and  takes  pleasure 
in  her  art,  devoting  her  body  and  mind  to  it,  reading 
only  books  about  love  and  lovers,  singing  songs  of 
love,  and  seeking  always  new  scents  and  colours  and 
modes  of  fascination.  If  lovers  are  away  and  none 
calls,  she  abandons  herself  to  dreams,  and  her  im- 
agination furnishes  quickly  a  new  romance.     Some- 


PREFACE  xv 

body  she  has  half-forgotten  rises  up  in  her  memory, 
and  she  thinks  that  she  could  like  him  if  he  were  to 
come  into  her  drawing-room  now.  It  would  be 
happiness  indeed  to  walk  forward  into  his  arms  and 
to  call  her  soul  into  her  eyes  ;  or,  if  a  letter  were  to 
come  from  him  asking  her  to  dinner,  she  would 
accept  it ;  and,  lying  back  among  her  silken  cushions, 
she  thinks  she  could  spend  many  hours  in  his  com- 
pany without  weariness.  She  creates  his  rooms  and 
his  person  and  his  conversation,  and  when  he  is 
exhausted  a  new  intrigue  rises  up  in  her  mind,  and 
then  another  and  another.  Some  drop  away  and 
remain  for  ever  unfulfilled,  while  others  '  come  into 
their  own,'  as  the  saying  is. 

If  this  be  a  true  analysis  of  a  woman's  life — and 
who  will  say  it  is  not? — the  dreams  of  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Kilcarney  would  begin  in  her  easy-chair 
about  the  second  spring  after  her  marriage,  the 
shaggy  shape  that  haunts  the  back  of  my  mind 
would  hear  her  dreams,  and  the  wooing  that  began 
with  the  daffodils  would  continue  always,  for  she  is 
a  woman  that  could  keep  a  lover  till  the  end  of 
time.  At  her  death  husband  and  lover  would  visit 
her  grave  together  and  talk  of  her  perfections  in  the 
winter  evenings.  But  if  Violet  did  not  die  another 
vagrant  male  would  steal  through  the  ilex-trees,  a 
hunter  in  pursuit  of  game,  or  else  it  might  be  a 
fisher,  seated  among  the  rocks  waiting,  for  tunny- 
fish.  Either  might  take  Violet's  fancy.  The  author 
of  Muslin  seems  to  have  entertained  a  thought  of 
some  such  pastoral  frolic  in  the  Shelbourne  Hotel — 
the  opposition  of  husband  and  lover  to  the  new- 
comer,    Harding,   whom    it    had    occurred    to    Mrs. 


xvi  PREFACE 

Barton  to  invite  to  Brookfield,  and  whom  she  would 
have  invited  had  it  not  been  for  her  great  matri- 
monial projects  ;  my  forerunner,  who  was  an  artist, 
saw  that  any  deflection  of  Mrs.  Barton's  thoughts 
would  jeopardize  his  composition,  and  he  allowed 
Mrs.  Barton  to  remain  a  chaperon.  He  was  right  in 
this,  but  Violet  should  have  been  the  impulse  and 
nucleus  of  a  new  story.  ...  I  began  to  think 
suddenly  of  the  blight  that  would  fall  on  the  twain  if 
Violet's  lover  were  to  die,  and  to  figure  them  sitting 
in  the  evenings  meditating  on  the  admirable  qualities 
of  the  deceased  till  in  their  loneliness  he  would  come 
to  seem  to  them  as  a  being  more  than  human,  touch- 
ing almost  on  the  Divine.  Their  ears  would  retain 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  the  familiar  furniture 
would  provoke  remembrances  of  him.  Ashamed  of 
their  weakness,  their  eyes  would  seek  the  chair  he 
used  to  sit  in  :  it  is  away  in  a  far  corner,  lest  a  casual 
visitor  should  draw  it  forward  and  defile  it  with  his 
presence — a  thing  that  happened  once  (the  unhappy 
twain  remember  how  they  lacked  moral  courage  to 
beg  him  to  choose  another  chair).  The  table,  laid 
for  two,  was  too  painful  to  behold,  and  they  never 
enjoyed  a  meal,  hardly  could  they  eat,  till  at  last  it 
was  decided  that  his  place  should  be  laid  for  him  as 
if  he  had  gone  away  on  a  journey,  and  might  appear 
in  the  doorway  and  sit  down  with  them  and  share  the 
repast  as  of  yore — a  pretty  deception  the  folly  of 
which  they  were  alive  to  (a  little)  but  would  not 
willingly  be  without. 

His  room,  too,  awaits  him,  and  his  clothes  have 
not  been  destroyed  or  given  to  the  pool-,  but  lie 
folded  by  charitable  hands  in  the  drawers  kept  safe 


PREFACE  xvii 

from  moth  with  orris-root  and  lavender.  His  hat 
hangs  on  its  accustomed  peg  in  the  hall,  and  they 
think  of  it  among  many  other  things.  At  last  the 
silence  of  these  lonely  meditations  is  broken  by 
sudden  recollections — for  dinner  the  cook  had  sent 
up  a  boiled  chicken  instead  of  roast,  and  he  had 
looked  upon  boiled  chicken  as  a  vulgar  insularism 
always.  Nor  were  there  bananas  on  the  table. 
Bananas  were  an  acquired  taste  with  them,  they  had 
learned  to  eat  the  fruit  for  love  of  their  friend,  and 
since  he  has  gone  they  have  not  eaten  the  chicken 
roast  nor  the  fruit,  and  it  seems  to  them  that  they 
should  have  eaten  of  these  things  in  memory  of 
him.  In  the  Spring  they  come  upon  his  pruning- 
knife,  and  discourse  sadly  on  the  changes  he  would 
have  advised.  Spring  opens  into  summer,  and  when 
summer  drops  into  the  autumn  Kilcarney's  black 
passes  into  grey  ;  he  appears  one  morning  in  a  violet 
tie,  and  the  tie,  picked  out  of  a  drawer  with  indifferent 
hand,  causes  Violet  to  doubt  her  husband's  constancy. 
It  was  soon  after  this  thoughtless  act  that  he  began, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  to  remind  her  that  the 
world  might  be  searched  in  its  dimmest  corners 
and  no  friend  again  found  like  the  one  they  had 
lost.  .  .  .  The  reflection  had  become  part  of  their 
habitual  thought,  and,  feeling  a  little  trite  and  com- 
monplace, Violet  listened,  or  half-listened,  engulfed 
in  retrospect. 

'  I  met  in  Merrion  Square,'  and  she  mentioned  a 
name,  'and  do  you  know  whom  he  seemed  to  be 
very  like  ?'  The  colour  died  out  of  Kilcarney's 
cheek  and  he  could  but  murmur,  cOh,  Violet !'  and 
colouring   at   being   caught  up  on  what   might    be 


xviii  PREFACE 

looked  upon  as  a  mental  infidelity,  she  answered,  '  of 
course,  none  is  like  him  ...  I  wish  you  would  not 
seek  to  misunderstand  me.' 

The  matter  passed  off,  but  next  evening  she  sat 
looking  at  her  husband,  her  thoughts  suspended  for 
so  long  that  he  began  to  fear,  wrongly  however,  that 
she  was  about  to  put  forward  some  accusation,  to 
twit  him  perchance  on  his  lack  of  loyalty  to  his  dead 
friend.  He  had  not  eaten  a  banana  for  dinner, 
though  he  had  intended  to  eat  one.  '  Of  course,  we 
shall  never  find  anyone  like  him,'  she  said — '  not  if  we 
were  to  search  all  the  corners  of  the  world.  That  is 
so,  we're  both  agreed  on  that  point,  but  I've  been 
thinking  which  of  all  our  friends  and  acquaintances 
would  least  unworthily  fill  his  place  in  our  lives.' 
'  Violet !  Violet !'  '  If  you  persist  in  misunderstand- 
ing me,'  she  answered,  '  I  have  no  more  to  say,' 
whereupon  the  Marquis  tried  to  persuade  the  Mar- 
chioness out  of  the  morose  silence  that  had  fallen 
upon  them,  and  failing  to  move  her  he  raised  the 
question  that  had  divided  them.  'If  you  mean, 
Violet,  that  our  racing  friend  would  be  a  poor  shift 
for  our  dead  friend,  meaning  thereby  that  nobody  in 
Dublin  is  comparable' — ' could  I  have  meant  any- 
thing else,  you  old  dear  ?'  she  replied ;  and  the  ice 
having  been  broken,  the  twain  plunged  at  once  into 
the  waters  of  recollection,  and  coming  upon  a  current 
they  were  borne  onward,  swiftly  and  more  swiftly, 
till  at  length  a  decision  had  to  be  come  to — they 
would  invite  their  racing  friend. 

It  was  on  the  Marquis's  lips  to  say  a  word  or  two 
in  disparagement  of  the  invited  guest,  but  on  second 
thoughts  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  better  refrain  ; 


PREFACE  xix 

the  Marchioness,  too,  was  about  to  plead,  she  did  not 
know  exactly  what,  but  she  thought  she  would  like  to 
reassure  the  Marquis.  .  .  .  On  second  thoughts  she 
decided  too  that  it  would  be  better  (perhaps)  to  re- 
frain. Well,  to  escape  from  the  toils  of  an  interest- 
ing story  (for  I'm  no  longer  a  story-teller  but  a 
prefacer)  I  will  say  that  three  nights  later  Sir  Hugh 
took  the  Marchioness  in  to  dinner  ;  he  sat  in  his  pre- 
decessor's chair,  knowing  nothing  of  him,  thereby 
startling  his  hosts,  who,  however,  soon  recovered 
their  presence  of  mind.  After  dinner  the  Marquis 
said,  '  Now,  Sir  Hugh,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me 
if  I  go  upstairs.  I  am  taking  the  racing  calendar 
with  me,  you  see.' 

My  forerunner,  the  author  of  Muslin,  should  have 
written  the  story  sketched  here  with  a  failing  hand, 
his  young  wit  would  have  allowed  him  to  tell  how 
the  marriage  that  had  wilted  sadly  after  the  death 
of  Uncle  Toby  now  renewed  its  youth,  opening  its 
leaves  to  the  light  again,  shaking  itself  in  the  gay 
breezes  floating  by.  He  would  have  been  able  in 
this  story  to  present  three  exemplars  of  the  domestic 
virtues,  telling  how  they  went  away  to  the  seaside 
together,  and  returned  together  to  their  castle 
among  tall  trees  in  October  compelling  the  admira- 
tion of  the  entire  countryside.  He  would  have 
shown  us  the  Marchioness  entertaining  visitors 
while  the  two  men  talked  by  the  fireplace,  de- 
lighting in  each  other's  company,  and  he  would  not 
have  forgotten  to  put  them  before  us  in  their  after- 
noon walks,  sharing  between  them  Violet's  knick- 
knacks,  her  wraps,  her  scarf,  her  fan,  her  parasol, 
her  cushion.     His  last  chapter  would  probably  be 


xx  PREFACE 

in  a  ball-room,  husband  and  lover  standing  by  the 
door  watching  the  Marchioness  swinging  round  the 
room  on  the  arm  of  a  young  subaltern.  '  Other 
women  are  younger  than  she,  Kilcarney,  but  who 
is  as  graceful  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  a  woman  hold 
herself  like  Violet?'  One  of  the  daughters  (for 
there  have  been  children  by  this  second,  or  shall  we 
say  by  this  third,  marriage)  comes  up  breathless  after 
the  dance.  '  Darling  Uncle  Hughie,  won't  you  take 
me  for  an  ice  ?'  and  he  gives  her  his  arm  affection- 
ately, but  as  they  pass  away  to  the  buffet  Sir  Hugh 
hears  Kilcarney  speaking  of  Lily  as  his  daughter. 
Sir  Hugh's  face  clouds  suddenly,  but  he  remembers 
that,  after  all,  Kilcarney  is  a  guardian  of  his  wife's 
honour.  A  very  ingenious  story,  no  doubt,  and  if,  as 
the  young  man's  ascendant — the  critics  of  1915  are 
pleased  to  speak  of  me  as  ascendant  from  the  author 
of  Mmlin — I  may  be  permitted  to  remark  upon  it, 
I  would  urge  the  very  grave  improbability  that  three 
people  ever  lived  contemporaneously  who  were  wise 
enough  to  prefer,  and  so  consistently,  happiness  to 
the  conventions. 

There  are  still  May  Gould  and  Olive  to  consider, 
but  this  preface  has  been  prolonged  unduly,  and  it 
may  be  well  to  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  a  future 
for  these  girls,  and  to  decide  the  interests  that  will 
fill  Mrs.  Barton's  life  when  Lord  Dungory's  relations 
with  this  world  have  ceased. 

G.  M. 


MUSLIN 


f^r  ^S2  HE  convent  was  situated  on  a  hilltop, 
■  and  through  the  green  garden  the  white 
dresses  of  the  schoolgirls  fluttered  like 
the  snowy  plumage  of  a  hundred  doves. 
Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  a  flock  of  little  ones 
would  race  through  a  deluge  of  leaf-entangled  rays 
towards  a  pet  companion  standing  at  the  end  of 
a  gravel-walk  examining  the  flower  she  has  just 
picked,  the  sunlight  glancing  along  her  little  white 
legs  proudly  and  charmingly  advanced.  The  elder 
girls  in  their  longer  skirts  were  more  dignified,  but 
when  they  caught  sight  of  a  favourite  sister,  they 
too  ran  forward,  and  then  retreated  timidly,  as  if 
afraid  of  committing  an  indiscretion. 

It  was  prize-day  in  the  Convent  of  the  Holy  Child, 
and  since  early  morning  all  had  been  busy  preparing 
for  the  arrival  of  the  Bishop.  His  throne  had  been 
set  at  one  end  of  the  school-hall,  and  at  the  other 
the  carpenters  had  erected  a  stage  for  the  perform- 
ance of  King  Cophetua,  a  musical  sketch  written  by 
Miss  Alice  Barton  for  the  occasion. 

Alice  Barton  was  what  is  commonly  known  as  a 

A 


2  MUSLIN 

plain  girl.  At  home,  during  the  holidays,  she  often 
heard  that  the  dressmaker  could  not  fit  her  ;  but 
though  her  shoulders  were  narrow  and  prim,  her 
arms  long  and  almost  awkward,  there  was  a  character 
about  the  figure  that  commanded  attention.  Alice 
was  now  turned  twenty ;  she  was  the  eldest,  the 
best-beloved,  and  the  cleverest  girl  in  the  school. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  on  account  of  any  backward- 
ness in  her  education  that  she  had  been  kept  so  long 
out  of  society,  but  because  Mrs.  Barton  thought 
that,  as  her  two  girls  were  so  different  in  appearance, 
it  would  be  well  for  them  to  come  out  together. 
Against  this  decision  Alice  said  nothing,  and,  like  a 
tall  arum  lily,  she  had  grown  in  the  convent  from 
girl  to  womanhood.  To  her  the  little  children  ran 
to  be  comforted ;  and  to  walk  with  her  in  the  garden 
was  considered  an  honour  and  a  pleasure  that  even 
the  Reverend  Mother  was  glad  to  participate  in. 

Lady  Cecilia  Cullen  sat  next  to  Alice,  and  her  high 
shoulders  and  long  face  and  pathetic  eyes  drew 
attention  to  her  shoulders — they  were  a  little  wry, 
the  right  seemingly  higher  than  the  left.  Her  eyes 
were  on  Alice,  and  it  was  plain  that  she  wished  the 
other  girls  away,  and  that  her  nature  was  delicate, 
sensitive,  obscure,  if  not  a  little  queer.  At  home 
her  elder  sisters  complained  that  an  ordinary  look 
or  gesture  often  shocked  her,  and  so  deeply  that 
she  would  remain  for  hours  sitting  apart  refusing 
all  consolation ;  and  it  was  true  that  a  spot  on  the 
tablecloth  or  presence  of  one  repellent  to  her  was 
sufficient  to  extinguish  a  delight  or  an  appetite. 

Violet  Scully  occupied  the  other  end  of  the  garden 
bench.     She  was    very   thin,   but  withal    elegantly 


•  ♦ 

i       • 

00 


MUSLIN  S 

made.  Her  face  was  neat  and  delicate,  and  it  was 
set  with  light  blue  eyes ;  and  when  she  was  not 
changing  her  place  restlessly,  or  looking  round  as  if 
she  fancied  someone  was  approaching;  when  she  was 
still  (which  was  seldom),  a  rigidity  of  feature  and  an 
almost  complete  want  of  bosom  gave  her  the  appear- 
ance of  a  convalescent  boy. 

If  May  Gould,  who  stood  at  the  back,  her  hand 
leaning  affectionately  on  Alice's  shoulder,  had  been 
three  inches  taller,  she  would  have  been  classed  a 
fine  figure,  but  her  features  were  too  massive  for  her 
height.  Her  hair  was  not  of  an  inherited  red.  It 
was  the  shade  of  red  that  is  only  seen  in  the  children 
of  dark-haired  parents.  In  great  coils  it  rolled  over 
the  dimpled  cream  of  her  neck,  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Alice,  May  was  the  cleverest  girl  in  the 
school.  For  public  inspection  she  made  large  water- 
coloured  drawings  of  Swiss  scenery  ;  for  private  view, 
pen-and-ink  sketches  of  officers  sitting  in  conserva- 
tories with  young  ladies.  The  former  were  admired 
by  the  nuns,  the  latter  occasioned  some  discussion 
among  a  select  few. 

Violet  Scully  and  May  Gould  would  appeal  to 
different  imaginations. 

Olive,  Alice's  sister,  was  more  beautiful  than  either, 
but  there  was  danger  that  her  corn-coloured  hair, 
wound  round  a  small  shapely  head,  might  fail  to 
excite  more  than  polite  admiration.  Her  nose  was 
finely  chiselled,  but  it  was  high  and  aquiline,  and 
though  her  eyes  were  well  drawn  and  coloured,  they 
lacked  personal  passion  and  conviction;  but  no  flower 
could  show  more  delicate  tints  than  her  face — rose 
tints  fading  into  cream,  cream  rising  into  rose.     Her 


♦  • 


4  MUSLIN 

ear  was  curved  like  a  shell,  her  mouth  was  faint  and 
weak  as  a  rose,  and  her  moods  alternated  between 
sudden  discontent  and  sudden  gaiety. 

'  I  don't  see,  Alice,  why  you  couldn't  have  made 
King  Cophetua  marry  the  Princess.  Whoever  heard 
of  a  King  marrying  a  beggar-maid  ?  Besides,  I  hear 
that  lots  of  people  are  going  to  be  present,  and  to  be 
jilted  before  them  all  isn't  very  nice.  I  am  sure 
mamma  wouldn't  like  it.' 

'  But  you  are  not  jilted,  my  dear  Olive.  You  don't 
like  the  King,  and  you  show  your  nobleness  of 
mind  by  refusing  him.' 

1 1  don't  see  that.     Whoever  refused  a  King  ?' 

'  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?'  exclaimed  May.  '  I 
never  saw  anyone  so  selfish  in  all  my  life ;  you 
wouldn't  be  satisfied  unless  you  played  the  whole 
piece  by  yourself.' 

Olive  would  probably  have  made  a  petulant  and 
passionate  reply,  but  at  that  moment  visitors  were 
coming  up  the  drive. 

'  It's  papa,'  cried  Olive. 

'And  he  is  with  mamma,'  said  Violet;  and  she 
tripped  after  Olive. 

Mr.  Barton,  a  tall,  handsome  man,  seemed  pos- 
sessed of  all  the  beauty  of  a  cameo,  and  Olive  had 
inherited  his  high  aquiline  nose  and  the  moulding 
of  his  romantic  forehead ;  and  his  colour,  too.  He 
wore  a  flowing  beard,  and  his  hair  and  beard  were 
the  colour  of  pale  cafe-au-lait.  Giving  a  hand  to 
each  daughter,  he  said  : 

'  Here  is  learning  and  here  is  beauty.  Could  a 
father  desire  more  ?  And  you,  Violet,  and  you,  May, 
are  about  to  break  into  womanhood.     I  used  to  kiss 


MUSLIN  5 

you  in  old  times,  but  I  suppose  you  are  too  big  now. 
How  strange — how  strange  !  There  you  are,  a  row 
of  brunettes  and  blondes,  who  before  many  days  are 
over  will  be  charming  the  hearts  of  all  the  young 
men  in  Galway.  I  suppose  it  was  in  talking  of  such 
things  that  you  spent  the  morning  ?' 

'  Our  young  charges  have  been,  I  assure  you,  very 
busy  all  the  morning.  We  are  not  as  idle  as  you 
think,  Mr.  Barton,'  said  the  nun  in  a  tone  of  voice 
that  showed  that  she  thought  Mi*.  Barton's  remark 
ill-considered.  '  We  have  been  arranging  the  stage 
for  the  representation  of  a  little  play  that  your 
daughter  Alice  composed.' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  know ;  she  wrote  to  me  about  it. 
King  Cophetua  is  the  name,  isn't  it  ?  I  am  very 
curious  indeed,  for  I  have  set  Tennyson's  ballad  to 
music  myself.  I  sing  it  to  the  guitar,  and  if  life 
were  not  so  hurried  I  should  have  sent  it  to  you. 
However — however,  we  are  all  going  home  to- 
morrow. I  have  promised  to  take  charge  of  Cecilia, 
and  Mrs.  Scully  is  going  to  look  after  May.' 

'  Oh,  how  nice !  Oh,  how  jolly  that  will  be ! ' 
Olive  cried ;  and,  catching  Violet  by  the  hands,  she 
romped  with  her  for  glee. 

But  the  nun,  taking  advantage  of  this  break  in 
the  conversation,  said : 

'  Come,  now,  young  ladies,  it  is  after  two  o'clock  ; 
we  shall  never  be  ready  in  time  if  you  don't  make 
haste — and  it  won't  do  to  keep  the  Bishop  waiting.' 
Like  a  hen  gathering  her  chickens,  the  Sister 
hurried  away  with  Violet,  Olive,  and  May. 

'  How  happy  they  seem  in  this  beautiful  retreat !' 
said  Mrs.  Scully,  drawing  her  black  lace  shawl  about 


6  MUSLIN 

her  grey-silk  shoulders.  '  How  little  they  know  of 
the  troubles  of  the  world  !  I  am  afraid  it  would  be 
hard  to  persuade  them  to  leave  their  convent  if  they 
knew  the  trials  that  await  them.' 

'  We  cannot  escape  our  trials/  a  priest  said,  who 
had  just  joined  the  group  ;  '  they  are  given  to  us 
that  we  may  overcome  them.' 

1  I  suppose  so,  indeed/  said  Mrs.  Scully ;  and, 
trying  to  find  consolation  in  the  remark,  she  sighed. 
Another  priest,  as  if  fearing  further  religious  shop 
from  his  fellow-worker,  informed  Mr.  Barton,  in  a 
cheerful  tone  of  voice,  that  he  had  heard  he  was 
a  great  painter. 

'  I  don't  know — I  don't  know/  replied  Mr.  Bar- 
ton ;  f  painting  is,  after  all,  only  dreaming.  I  should 
like  to  be  put  at  the  head  of  an  army,  but  when 
I  am  seized  with  an  idea  I  have  to  rush  to  put  it 
down.' 

Finding  no  appropriate  answer  to  these  somewhat 
erratic  remarks,  the  priest  joined  in  a  discussion 
that  had  been  started  concerning  the  action  taken 
by  the  Church  during  the  present  agrarian  agitation. 
Mr.  Barton,  who  was  weary  of  the  subject,  stepped 
aside,  and,  sitting  on  one  of  the  terrace  benches 
between  Cecilia  and  Alice,  he  feasted  his  eyes  on 
the  colour-changes  that  came  over  the  sea,  and  in 
long-drawn-out  and  disconnected  phrases  explained 
his  views  on  nature  and  art  until  the  bell  was  rung 
for  the  children  to  assemble  in  the  school-hall. 


MUSLIN 


II 


It  was  a  large  room  with  six  windows  ;  these  had 
been  covered  over  with  red  cloth,  and  the  wall 
opposite  was  decorated  with  plates,  flowers,  and 
wreaths  woven  out  of  branches  of  ilex  and  holly. 

Chairs  for  the  visitors  had  been  arranged  in  a 
semicircle  around  the  Bishop's  throne — a  great 
square  chair  approached  by  steps,  and  rendered 
still  more  imposing  by  the  canopy,  whose  volu- 
minous folds  fell  on  either  side  like  those  of  a 
corpulent  woman's  dress.  Opposite  was  the  stage. 
The  footlights  were  turned  down,  but  the  blue 
mountains  and  brown  palm-trees  of  the  drop- 
curtain,  painted  by  one  of  the  nuns,  loomed  through 
the  red  obscurity  of  the  room.  Benches  had  been 
set  along  the  walls.  Between  them  a  strip  of  carpet, 
worked  with  roses  and  lilies,  down  which  the  girls 
advanced  when  called  to  receive  their  prizes, 
stretched  its  blue  and  slender  length. 

'  His  Grace  is  coming ! '  a  nun  cried,  running  in, 
and  instantly  the  babbling  of  voices  ceased,  and 
four  girls  hastened  to  the  pianos  placed  on  either 
side  of  the  stage,  two  left-hands  struck  a  series  of 
chords  in  the  bass,  the  treble  notes  replied,  and,  to  the 
gallant  measure  of  a  French  polka,  a  stately  prelate 
entered,  smiling  benediction  as  he  advanced,  the 
soft  clapping  of  feminine  palms  drowning,  for  a 
moment,  the  slangy  strains  of  the  polka. 

When  the  Bishop  was  seated  on  his  high  throne, 
the  back  of  which  extended  some  feet  above  his 
head,  and  as  soon  as  the  crowd  of  visitors  had  been 


8  MUSLIN 

accommodated  with  chairs  around  him,  a  nun  made 
her  way  through  the  room,  seeking  anxiously  among 
the  girls.  She  carried  in  her  hand  a  basket  rilled 
with  programmes,  all  rolled  and  neatly  tied  with 
pieces  of  different  coloured  ribbon.  These  she  dis- 
tributed to  the  ten  tiniest  little  children  she  could 
find,  and,  advancing  five  from  either  side,  they 
formed  in  a  line  and  curtsied  to  the  Bishop.  One 
little  dot,  whose  hair  hung  about  her  head  like  a 
golden  mist,  nearly  lost  her  balance ;  she  was,  how- 
ever, saved  from  falling  by  a  companion,  and  then, 
like  a  group  of  kittens,  they  tripped  down  the  strip 
of  blue  carpet  and  handed  the  programmes  to  the 
guests,  who  leaned  forward  as  if  anxious  to  touch 
their  hands,  to  stroke  their  shining  hair. 

The  play  was  now  ready  to  begin,  and  Alice  felt 
she  was  going  from  hot  to  cold,  for  when  the 
announcement  printed  on  the  programme,  that  she 
was  the  author  of  the  comedy  of  King  Cophetua 
had  been  read,  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her ;  the 
Bishop,  after  eyeing  her  intently,  bent  towards  the 
Reverend  Mother  and  whispered  to  her.  Cecilia 
clasped  Alice's  hand  and  said :  '  You  must  not  be 
afraid,  dear ;  I  know  it  will  be  all  right.' 

And  the  little  play  was  as  charming  as  it  was 
guileless.  The  old  legend  had  been  arranged — as 
might  have  been  expected  from  a  schoolgirl — simply 
and  unaffectedly.  The  scene  opened  in  a  room  in 
the  palace  of  the  King,  and  when  a  chorus,  supposed 
to  be  sung  by  the  townspeople,  was  over,  a  Minister 
entered  hurriedly.  The  little  children  uttered  a  cry 
of  delight ;  they  did  not  recognize  their  companion 
in  her  strange  disguise.     A  large  wig,  with  brown 


MUSLIN  9 

curls  hanging  over  the  shoulders,  almost  hid  the  face, 
that  had  been  made  to  look  quite  aged  by  a  few 
clever  touches  of  the  pencil  about  the  eyes  and 
mouth.  She  was  dressed  in  a  long  garment,  some- 
thing between  an  ulster  and  a  dressing-gown.  It 
fell  just  below  her  knees,  for  it  had  been  decided  by 
the  Reverend  Mother  that  it  were  better  that  there 
should  be  a  slight  display  of  ankles  than  the  least 
suspicion  of  trousers.  The  subject  was  a  delicate 
one,  and  for  some  weeks  past  a  look  of  alarm  had 
not  left  the  face  of  the  nun  in  charge  of  the  ward- 
robe. But  these  considerations  only  amused  the 
girls,  and  now,  delighted  at  the  novelty  of  her 
garments,  the  Minister  strutted  about  the  stage  com- 
plaining of  the  temper  of  the  Dowager  Queen. 
'  Who  could  help  it  if  the  King  wouldn't  marry  ? 
Who  could  make  him  leave  his  poetry  and  music  for 
a  pretty  face  if  he  didn't  care  to  do  so  ?  He  had 
already  refused  blue  eyes,  black  eyes,  brown  eyes. 
However,  the  new  Princess  was  a  very  beautiful 
person,  and  ought,  all  things  considered,  to  be 
accepted  by  the  King.  She  must  be  passing  through 
the  city  at  the  moment.' 

On  this  the  Queen  entered.  The  first  words  she 
spoke  were  inaudible,  but,  gathering  courage,  she 
trailed  her  white  satin,  with  its  large  brocaded 
pattern,  in  true  queenly  fashion,  and  questioned 
the  Minister  as  to  his  opinion  of  the  looks  of  the 
new  Princess.  But  she  gave  no  point  to  her  words. 
The  scene  was,  fortunately,  a  short  one,  and  no 
sooner  had  they  disappeared  than  a  young  man 
entered.  He  held  a  lute  in  his  left  hand,  and  with 
his   right   he    twanged    the    strings   idly.      He   was 


10  MUSLIN 

King  Cophetua,  and  many  times  during  rehearsal 
Alice  had  warned  May  that  her  reading  of  the 
character  was  not  right ;  but  May  did  not  seem  able 
to  accommodate  herself  to  the  author's  view  of  the 
character,  and,  after  a  few  minutes,  fell  back  into 
her  old  swagger ;  and  now,  excited  by  the  presence 
of  an  audience,  by  the  footlights,  by  the  long  coat 
under  which  she  knew  her  large,  well-shaped  legs 
could  be  seen,  she  forgot  her  promises,  and  strolled 
about  like  a  man,  as  she  had  seen  young  Scully 
saunter  about  the  stable-yard  at  home.  She  looked, 
no  doubt,  very  handsome,  and,  conscious  of  the  fact, 
she  addressed  her  speeches  to  a  group  of  young 
men,  who,  for  no  ostensible  reason  except  to  get  as 
far  away  as  possible  from  the  Bishop,  had  crowded 
into  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  hall. 

And  so  great  was  May's  misreading  of  the  char- 
acter, that  Alice  could  hardly  realize  that  she  was 
listening  to  her  own  play.  Instead  of  speaking  the 
sentence,  ( My  dear  mother,  I  could  not  marry 
anyone  I  did  not  love ;  besides,  am  I  not  already 
wedded  to  music  and  poetry  ?'  slowly,  dreamily, 
May  emphasized  the  words  so  jauntily,  that  they 
seemed  to  be  poetic  equivalents  for  wine  and 
tobacco.  There  was  no  doubt  that  things  were 
going  too  far ;  the  Reverend  Mother  frowned,  and 
shifted  her  position  in  her  chair  uneasily  ;  the  Bishop 
crossed  his  legs  and  took  snuff  methodically. 

But  at  this  moment  the  attention  of  the  audience 
was  diverted  by  the  entrance  of  the  Princess. 
May's  misbehaviour  was  forgotten,  and  a  murmur  of 
admiration  rose  through  the  red  twilight.  Dressed 
in  a  tight-fitting    gown   of  pale    blue,   opening    in 


MUSLIN  11 

front,  and  finishing  in  a  train  held  up  by  the 
smallest  child  in  the  school,  Olive  moved  across  the 
stage  like  a  beautiful  bird.  Taking  a  wreath  of 
white  roses  from  her  hair,  she  presented  them  to 
the  King.  He  had  then  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  lead 
her  to  a  chair.  In  the  scene  that  followed,  Alice 
had  striven  to  be  intensely  pathetic.  She  had  in- 
tended that  the  King,  by  a  series  of  kindly  put 
questions,  should  gradually  win  the  Princess's  con- 
fidence, and  induce  her  to  tell  the  truth — that  her 
affections  had  already  been  won  by  a  knight  at  her 
father's  Court ;  that  she  could  love  none  other. 

King.  But  if  this  knight  did  not  exist ;  if  you  had 
never  seen  him,  you  would,  I  suppose,  have  accepted 
my  hand  ? 

Princess.  You  will  not  be  offended  if  I  tell  you 
the  truth  ? 

King.  No  ;  my  word  on  it. 

Princess.   I  could  never  have  listened  to  your  love. 

King  (rismg  hastily).  Am  I  then  so  ugly,  so  horrible, 
so  vile,  that  even  if  your  heart  were  not  engaged 
elsewhere  you  could  not  have  listened  to  me  ? 

Princess.  You  are  neither  horrible  nor  vile,  King 
Cophetua ;  but  again  promise  me  secrecy,  and  I  will 
tell  you  the  whole  truth. 

King.   I  promise. 

Princess.  You  are  loved  by  a  maiden  far  more 
beautiful  than  I ;  she  is  dying  of  love  for  your  sake  ! 
She  has  suffered  much  for  her  love  ;  she  is  suffering 
still. 

King.   Who  is  this  maiden  ? 

Princess.    Ah !     She  is  but   a   beggar-maid ;    she 


12  MUSLIN 

lives  on  charity,  the  songs  she  sings,  and  the  flowers 
she  sells  in  the  streets.  And  now  she  is  poorer 
than  ever,  for  your  royal  mother  has  caused  her  to 
be  driven  out  of  the  city. 

Here  the  King  weeps  —  he  is  supposed  to  be 
deeply  touched  by  the  Princess's  account  of  the 
wrongs  done  to  the  beggar-maid — and  it  is  finally 
arranged  between  him  and  the  Princess  that  they 
shall  pretend  to  have  come  to  some  violent  mis- 
understanding, and  that,  in  their  war  of  words,  they 
shall  insult  each  other's  parents  so  grossly  that  all 
possibilities  of  a  marriage  will  be  for  ever  at  an  end. 
Throwing  aside  a  chair  so  as  to  bring  the  Queen 
within  ear-shot,  the  King  declares  that  his  royal 
neighbour  is  an  old  dunce,  and  that  there  is  not 
enough  money  in  his  treasury  to  pay  the  Court 
boot-maker ;  the  Princess  retaliates  by  saying  that 
the  royal  mother  of  the  crowned  head  she  is  address- 
ing is  an  old  cat,  who  paints  her  face  and  beats  her 
maids-of-honour. 

The  play  that  up  to  this  point  had  been  con- 
sidered a  little  tedious  now  engaged  the  attention 
of  the  audience,  and  when  the  Queen  entered  she 
was  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter.  The  applause 
was  deafening.  Olive  played  her  part  better  than 
had  been  expected,  and  all  the  white  frocks  trembled 
with  excitement.  The  youths  in  the  left-hand 
corner  craned  their  heads  forward  so  as  not  to  lose 
a  syllable  of  what  was  coming ;  the  Bishop  recrossed 
his  legs  in  a  manner  that  betokened  his  entire  satis- 
faction ;  and,  delighted,  the  mammas  and  papas 
whispered   together.     But    the   faces   of  the   nuns 


MUSLIN  IS 

betrayed  the  anxiety  they  felt.  Inquiring  glances 
passed  beneath  the  black  hoods ;  all  the  sleek  faces 
grew  alive  and  alarmed.  May  was  now  alone  on 
the  stage,  and  there  was  no  saying  what  indiscretion 
she  might  not  be  guilty  of. 

The  Reverend  Mother,  however,  had  anticipated 
the  danger  of  the  scene,  and  had  sent  round  word 
to  the  nun  in  charge  of  the  back  of  the  stage  to  tell 
Miss  Gould  that  she  was  to  set  the  crown  straight 
on  her  head,  and  to  take  her  hands  out  of  her 
pockets.  The  effect  of  receiving  such  instructions 
from  the  wings  was  that  May  forgot  one-half  her 
words,  and  spoke  the  other  half  so  incorrectly  that 
the  passage  Alice  had  counted  on  so  much — 'At  last, 
thank  Heaven,  that  tiresome  trouble  is  over,  and  I 
am  free  to  return  to  music  and  poetry ' — was  ren- 
dered into  nonsense,  and  the  attention  of  the 
audience  lost.  Nor  were  matters  set  straight  until 
a  high  soprano  voice  was  heard  singing  : 

'  Buy,  buy,  who  will  buy  roses  of  me  ? 

Roses  to  weave  in  your  hair. 
A  penny,  only  a  penny  for  three, 

Roses  a  queen  might  wear  ! 
Roses  !     I  gathered  them  far  away 

In  gardens,  white  and  red. 
Roses  !     Make  presents  of  roses  to-day 

And  help  me  to  earn  my  bread.5 

The  King  divined  that  this  must  be  the  ballad- 
singer — the  beggar-maid  who  loved  him,  who,  by 
some  secret  emissaries  of  the  Queen,  had  been  driven 
away  from  the  city,  homeless  and  outcast ;  and, 
snatching  his  lute  from  the  wall,  he  sang  a  few 
plaintive  verses  in  response.  The  strain  was  in- 
stantly taken  up,  and  then,  on  the  current  of  a  plain 


14  MUSLIN 

religious  melody,  the  two  voices  were  united,  and,  as 
two  perfumes,  they  seemed  to  blend  and  become  one. 

Alice  would  have  preferred  something  less  ethereal, 
for  the  exigencies  of  the  situation  demanded  that  the 
King  should  get  out  of  the  window  and  claim  the 
hand  of  the  beggar-maid  in  the  public  street.  But 
the  nun  who  had  composed  the  music  could  not  be 
brought  to  see  this,  and,  after  a  comic  scene  between 
the  Queen  and  the  Chancellor,  the  King,  followed 
by  his  Court  and  suite,  entered,  leading  the  beggar- 
maid  by  the  hand.  In  a  short  speech  he  told  how 
her  sweetness,  her  devotion,  and,  above  all,  her 
beautiful  voice,  had  won  his  heart,  and  that  he 
intended  to  make  her  his  Queen.  A  back  cloth 
went  up,  and  it  disclosed  a  double  throne,  and  as 
the  young  bride  ascended  the  steps  to  take  her  place 
by  the  side  of  her  royal  husband,  a  joyful  chorus 
was  sung,  in  which  allusion  was  made  to  a  long  reign 
and  happy  days. 

Everyone  was  enchanted  but  Alice,  who  had 
wished  to  show  how  a  man,  in  the  trouble  and 
bitterness  of  life,  must  yearn  for  the  consoling  sym- 
pathy of  a  woman,  and  how  he  may  find  the  dove 
his  heart  is  sighing  for  in  the  lowliest  bracken ;  and, 
having  found  her,  and  having  recognized  that  she  is 
the  one,  he  should  place  her  in  his  bosom,  confident 
that  her  plumes  are  as  fair  and  immaculate  as  those 
that  glitter  in  the  sunlight  about  the  steps  and  ter- 
races of  the  palace.  Instead  of  this,  she  had  seen  a 
King  who  seemed  to  regard  life  as  a  sensual  gratifi- 
cation ;  and  a  beggar-maid,  who  looked  upon  her 
lover,  not  timidly,  as  a  new-born  flower  upon  the 
sun,  but  as  a  clever  huckstress  at  a  customer  who 


MUSLIN  15 

had  bought  her  goods  at  her  valuing.  But  the 
audience  did  not  see  below  the  surface,  and,  in 
answer  to  clapping  of  hands  and  cries  of  Encore,  the 
curtain  was  raised  once  more,  and  King  Cophetua, 
seated  on  his  throne  by  the  side  of  his  beggar-maid, 
was  shown  to  them  again. 

The  excitement  did  not  begin  to  calm  until  the 
tableaux  vivants  were  ready.  For,  notwithstanding 
the  worldliness  of  the  day,  it  was  thought  that 
Heaven  should  not  be  forgotten.  The  convent 
being  that  of  the  Holy  Child,  something  illustrative 
of  the  birth  of  Christ  naturally  suggested  itself. 
No  more  touching  or  edifying  subject  than  that  of 
the  Annunciation  could  be  found.  Violet's  thin, 
elegant  face  seemed  representative  of  an  intelligent 
virginity,  and  in  a  long,  white  dress  she  knelt  at  the 
prie-dieu.  Olive,  with  a  pair  of  wings  obtained  from 
the  local  theatre,  and  her  hair,  blonde  as  an  August 
harvesting,  lying  along  her  back,  took  the  part  of 
the  Angel.  She  wore  a  star  on  her  forehead,  and 
after  an  interval  that  allowed  the  company  to 
recover  their  composure,  and  the  carpenter  to  pre- 
pare the  stage,  the  curtain  was  again  raised.  This 
time  the  scene  was  a  stable.  At  the  back,  in  the 
right-hand  corner,  there  was  a  manger  to  which  was 
attached  a  stuffed  donkey ;  Violet  sat  on  a  low  stool 
and  held  the  new-born  Divinity  in  her  arms  ;  May, 
who  for  the  part  of  Joseph  had  been  permitted  to 
wear  a  false  beard,  held  a  staff,  and  tried  to  assume 
the  facial  expression  of  a  man  who  had  just  been 
blessed  with  a  son.  In  the  foreground  knelt  the 
three  wise  men  from  the  East ;  with  outstretched 
hands  they  held  forth  their  offerings  of  frankincense 


16  MUSLIN 

and  myrrh.  The  picture  of  the  world's  Redemption 
was  depicted  with  such  taste  that  a  murmur  of  pious 
admiration  sighed  throughout  the  hall. 

Soon  after  a  distribution  of  prizes  began,  and 
when  the  different  awards  had  been  distributed,  and 
the  Bishop  had  made  a  speech,  there  was  benedic- 
tion in  the  convent-church. 


III 

'  And  to  think/  said  Alice,  '  that  this  is  the  very 
last  evening  we  shall  ever  pass  here  !' 

'  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  very  sorry  for 
that,'  replied  May ;  c  I  should  have  thought  that  you 
must  have  had  enough  of  the  place.  Why,  you  have 
been  here  nearly  ten  years  !  I  never  would  have 
consented  to  remain  so  long  as  that.' 

( I  didn't  mind  ;  we  have  been  very  happy  here, 
and  to  say  good-bye,  and  for  ever,  to  friends  we 
have  known  so  long,  and  who  have  been  so  good  to 
us,  seems  very  sad — at  least,  it  does  to  me.' 

'  It  is  all  very  well  for  you,'  said  Olive  ;  f  I  dare  say 
you  have  been  happy  here,  you  have  always  been 
the  petted  and  spoilt  child  of  the  school.  Nothing 
was  ever  too  good  for  Alice  ;  no  matter  who  was 
wrong  or  what  was  done,  Alice  was  sure  to  be 
right.' 

'  I  never  knew  anyone  so  unreasonable,'  said 
Cecilia.  '  You  grumble  at  everything,  and  you  are 
always  dying  of  jealousy  of  your  sister.' 

'  That's  not  true,  and  you  haven't  much  to  talk  of; 
after  beating  your  brains  out  you  only  just  got  the 


MUSLIN  17 

prize  for  composition.  Besides,  if  you  like  the  con- 
vent as  much  as  I  dare  say  you  do,  although  you 
aren't  a  Catholic,  you  had  better  stop  here  with  my 
sister.' 

1  Oh,  Olive  !  how  can  you  speak  to  Cecilia  in  that 
horrid  way  ?    I  am  ashamed  of  you.' 

'  So  you  are  going  to  turn  against  me,  Alice  ;  but 
that's  your  way.     I  shan't  stay  here.' 

The  retreating  figure  of  the  young  girl  stood  out 
in  beautiful  distinctness  in  the  pale  light ;  behind 
her  the  soft  evening  swept  the  sea,  effacing  with 
azure  the  brown  sails  of  the  fishing-boats ;  in  front 
of  her  the  dresses  of  the  girls  flitted  white  through 
the  sombre  green  of  the  garden. 

'  I  am  sorry,'  said  Cecilia,  '  you  spoke  to  her.  She 
is  put  out  because  she  didn't  get  a  prize,  and  Sister 
Agnes  told  her  that  she  nearly  spoilt  the  play  by  the 
stupid  way  she  played  the  Princess.' 

*  She  will  find  that  that  temper  of  hers  will  stand 
in  her  way  if  she  doesn't  learn  to  control  it,'  Violet 
said  ;  '  but,  now  she  is  gone,  tell  me,  Alice,  how  do 
you  think  she  played  her  part?  As  far  as  I  can 
judge  she  didn't  seem  to  put  any  life  into  it.  You 
meant  the  Princess  to  be  a  sharp,  cunning  woman  of 
the  world,  didn't  you  ?' 

'  No,  not  exactly ;  but  I  agree  with  you  that 
Olive  didn't  put  life  into  it.' 

*  Well,  anyhow,  the  play  was  a  great  success,  and 
you  got,  dear  Alice,  the  handsomest  prize  that  has 
ever  been  given  in  the  school.' 

1  And  how  do  you  think  I  did  the  King  ?  Did  I 
make  him  look  like  a  man  ?  I  tried  to  walk  just  as 
iFred  Scully  does  when  he  goes  down  to  the  stables.' 

B 


18  MUSLIN 

'  You  did  the  part  very  well,  May ;  but  I  think  I 
should  like  him  to  have  been  more  sentimental.' 

'  I  don't  think  men  are  sentimental — at  least,  not 
as  you  think  they  are.     I  tried  to  copy  Fred  Scully.' 

'  My  part  was  a  mere  nothing.  You  must  write 
me  a  something,  Alice,  one  of  these  days — a  coquettish 
girl,  you  know,  who  could  twist  a  man  round  her 
fingers.     A  lot  of  bavardage  in  it.' 

c  I  suppose  you'll  never  be  able  to  speak  English 
again,  now  you've  got  the  prize  for  French  conver- 
sation.' 

e  Sour  grapes  !  You  would  like  to  have  got  it 
yourself.  I  worked  hard  for  it.  I  was  determined 
to  get  it,  for  ma  says  it  is  of  great  advantage  in 
society  for  a  girl  to  speak  French  well.' 

'  Jealous  !  I  should  like  to  know  why  I  should  be 
jealous.  Of  what  ?  I  got  all  I  tried  for.  Besides, 
the  truth  about  your  French  prize  is  that  you  may 
consider  yourself  very  fortunate,  for  if  (she  men- 
tioned the  name  of  one  of  her  schoolfellows)  '  hadn't 
been  so  shy  and  timid,  you'd  have  come  off  second 
best.' 

The  rudeness  of  this  retort  drew  a  sharp  answer 
from  Violet ;  and  then,  in  turn,  but  more  often 
simultaneously,  the  gilds  discussed  the  justice  of  the 
distribution.  The  names  of  an  infinite  number  of 
girls  were  mentioned ;  but  when,  in  the  babbling 
flow  of  convent-gossip,  a  favourite  nun  was  spoken 
of,  one  of  the  chatterers  would  sigh,  and  for  a 
moment  be  silent. 

The  violet  waters  of  the  bay  had  darkened,  and, 
like  the  separating  banners  of  a  homeward-moving 
procession,  the  colours  of  the  sky  went  east  and 


MUSLIN  19 

west.  The  girdle  of  rubies  had  melted,  had  become 
the  pale  red  lining  of  a  falling  mantle ;  the  large 
spaces  of  gold  grew  dim ;  orange  and  yellow  streamers 
blended ;  lilac  and  blue  pennons  faded  to  deep  greys  ; 
dark  hoods  and  dark  veils  were  drawn  closer ;  purple 
was  gathered  like  garments  about  the  loins ;  the 
night  fell,  and  the  sky,  now  decorated  with  a  crescent 
moon  and  a  few  stars,  was  filled  with  stillness  and 
adoration.  The  day's  death  was  exquisite,  even 
human ;  and  as  she  gazed  on  the  beautiful  corpse 
lowered  amid  the  fumes  of  a  thousand  censers  into 
an  under-world,  even  Violet's  egotism  began  to 
dream. 

•  The  evening  is  lovely.  I  am  glad ;  it  is  the  last 
we  shall  pass  here,'  said  the  girl  pensively,  (and  all 
good-byes  are  sad.' 

'  Yes,  we  have  been  happy,'  said  May,  '  and  I  too 
am  sorry  to  leave  ;  but  then  we  couldn't  spend  our 
lives  here.  There  are  plenty  of  things  to  be  done 
at  home  ;  and  I  suppose  we  shall  all  get  married  one 
of  these  days  ?  And  there  will  be  balls  and  parties 
before  we  get  married.  I  don't  think  that  I'd  care 
to  get  married  all  at  once.     Would  you,  Violet  ?' 

'  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  not,  unless  it  was  to 
someone  very  grand  indeed.' 

•  Oh,  would  you  do  that  ?  I  don't  think  I  could 
marry  a  man  unless  I  loved  him,'  said  May. 

'  Yes,  but  you  might  love  someone  who  was  very 
grand  as  well  as  someone  who  wasn't.' 

'  That's   true   enough  ;    but   then '   and  May 

stopped,  striving  to  readjust  her  ideas,  which  Violet's 
remark  had  suddenly  disarranged.  After  a  pause 
she  said  : 


20  MUSLIN 

1  But  does  your  mother  intend  to  bring  you  to 
Dublin  for  the  season  ?  Are  you  going  to  be 
presented  this  year  ?' 

'  I  hope  so.    Mamma  said  I  should  be,  last  vacation.' 

'  I  shall  take  good  care  that  I  am.  The  best  part 
of  the  hunting  will  be  over,  and  I  wouldn't  miss  the 
Castle  balls  for  anything.     Do  you  like  officers  ?' 

The  crudity  of  the  question  startled  Alice,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  she  answered  she  didn't  know — 
that  she  had  not  thought  about  the  matter. 

May  and  Violet  continued  the  conversation ;  and 
over  the  lingering  waste  of  yellow,  all  that  remained 
to  tell  where  the  sun  had  set,  the  night  fell  like  a 
heavy,  blinding  dust,  sadly  and  regretfully,  as  the 
last  handful  of  earth  thrown  upon  a  young  girl's 
grave. 

IV 

In  the  tiny  cornfields  the  reapers  rose  from  their 
work  to  watch  the  carriage.  Mr.  Barton  commented 
on  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country.  Olive  asked 
if  Mr.  Parnell  was  good-looking.  A  railway-bridge 
was  passed  and  a  pine-wood  aglow  with  the  sunset, 
and  a  footman  stepped  down  from  the  box  to  open  a 
swinging  iron  gate. 

This  was  Brookfield.  Sheep  grazed  on  the  lawn, 
at  the  end  of  which,  beneath  some  chestnut-trees, 
was  the  house.  It  had  been  built  by  the  late  Mr. 
Barton  out  of  a  farmhouse,  but  the  present  man, 
having  travelled  in  Italy  and  been  attracted  by  the 
picturesque,  had  built  a  verandah ;  and  for  the  same 
reason  had  insisted  on  calling  his  daughter  Olive. 

'  Oh  there,  mamma  !'  cried  Olive,  looking  out  of 


MUSLIN  21 

the  carriage  window  ;  and  the  two  girls  watched 
their  mother,  a  pretty  woman  of  forty,  coming  across 
the  greensward  to  meet  them. 

She  moved  over  the  greensward  in  a  skirt  that 
seemed  a  little  too  long — a  black  silk  skirt  trimmed 
with  jet.  As  she  came  forward  her  daughters  noticed 
that  their  mother  dyed  her  hair  in  places  where  it 
might  be  suspected  of  turning  grey.  It  was  parted 
in  the  middle  and  she  wore  it  drawn  back  over  her 
ears  and  slightly  puffed  on  either  side  in  accordance 
with  the  fashion  that  had  come  in  with  the  Empress 
Eugenie.  Even  in  a  photograph  she  was  like  a  last- 
century  beauty  sketched  by  Romney  in  pastel — 
brown,  languid,  almond-shaped  eyes,  a  thin  figure  a 
little  bent.  Even  in  youth  it  had  probably  resembled 
Alice's  rather  than  Olive's,  but  neither  had  inherited 
her  mother's  hands — the  most  beautiful  hands  ever 
seen — and  while  they  trifled  with  the  newly  bought 
foulards  a  warbling  voice  inquired  if  Olive  was  sure 
she  was  not  tired. 

'  Five  hours  in  the  train  !  And  you,  Alice  ?  You 
must  be  starving,  my  dear,  and  I'm  afraid  the  saffron 
buns  are  cold.  Milord  brought  us  over  such  a  large 
packet  to-day.  We  must  have  some  heated  up.  They 
won't  be  a  minute.' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  I  assure  you  I  am  not  in  the  least 
hungry !'  cried  Olive. 

*  La  beauty  n'a  jamais  faim,  elle  se  nourrit  (Telle 
mvme,'  replied  Lord  Dungory,  who  had  just  returned 
from  the  pleasure-gi'ound  whither  he  had  gone  for  a 
little  walk  with  Arthur. 

'  You  will  find  Milord  the  same  as  ever — toujour* 
galanl ;  always  thinking  of  la  bcaute",  el  les  Jcmmes.' 


22  MUSLIN 

Lord  Dungory  was  the  kind  of  man  that  is  often 
seen  with  the  Mrs.  Barton  type  of  woman.  An 
elderly  beau  verging  on  the  sixties,  who,  like  Mrs. 
Barton,  suggested  a  period.  His  period  was  very 
early  Victorian,  but  he  no  longer  wore  a  silk  hat  in 
the  country.  A  high  silk  hat  in  Galway  would  have 
called  attention  to  his  age,  so  the  difficulty  of 
costume  was  ingeniously  compromised  by  a  tall  felt, 
a  cross  between  a  pot  and  a  chimney-pot.  For 
collars,  a  balance  had  been  struck  between  the  jaw- 
scrapers  of  old  time  and  the  nearest  modern  equiva- 
lent ;  and  in  the  tying  of  the  large  cravat  there 
was  a  reminiscence,  but  nothing  more,  of  the  past 
generation. 

He  had  modelled  himself,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, on  Lord  Palmerston,  and  in  the  course  of 
conversation  one  gathered  that  he  was  on  terms  of 
intimacy  with  the  chiefs  of  the  Liberal  party,  such 
as  Lord  Granville  and  Lord  Hartington,  and  if  the 
listener  was  credited  with  any  erudition,  allusion 
was  made  to  the  most  celebrated  artists  and  authors, 
and  to  their  works.  There  was  a  celebrated  Boucher 
in  Dungory  Castle,  which  Milord,  it  was  hinted,  had 
bought  for  some  very  small  sum  many  years  ago  on 
the  Continent ;  there  was  also  a  cabinet  by  Buhl  and 
a  statue  supposed  to  be  a  Jean  Gougon,  and  the 
proofs  of  their  authenticity  were  sometimes  spoken 
of  after  a  set  dinner-party.  His  speech  was  urbane, 
and,  on  all  questions  of  taste,  Lord  Dungory's  opinion 
was  eagerly  sought  for.  He  gave  a  tone  to  the  ideas 
put  forward  in  the  surrounding  country  houses,  and 
it  was  through  him  that  Mr.  Barton  held  the  title  of 
a  genius  born  out  of  due  time.      If  Arthur,  he  said, 


MUSLIN  23 

had  lived  two  centuries  ago,  when  the  gift  of  imagin- 
ation was  considered  indispensable  in  the  artist,  he 
would  have  achieved  high  distinction.  His  subjects 
—  The  Bridal  of  Trie/main  and  Julius  Ccesar  over- 
turning the  Altars  of  the  Druids — would  have  been 
envied,  perhaps  stolen,  by  the  Venetian  painters. 
And  this  tribute  to  Arthur's  genius,  so  generously 
expressed,  enabled  him  to  maintain  the  amenities  of 
his  life  at  Brookfield.  He  never  forgot  to  knock  at 
Arthur's  studio-door,  and  the  moment  his  eyes  fell 
on  a  new  composition,  he  spoke  of  it  with  respect ; 
and  he  never  failed  to  allude  to  it  at  lunch.  He 
lunched  at  Brookfield  every  day.  At  half-past  one 
his  carriage  was  at  the  door.  In  the  afternoons  he 
went  out  to  drive  with  Mrs.  Barton  or  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  with  her.  Four  times  in  the  week  he 
remained  to  dinner,  and  did  not  return  home  until 
close  on  midnight. 

Whether  he  ever  made  any  return  to  Mrs.  Barton 
for  her  hospitalities,  and,  if  so,  in  what  form  he 
repaid  his  obligations  to  her,  was,  when  friends 
drew  together,  a  favourite  topic  of  conversation  in 
the  county  of  Galway.  It  had  been  remarked  that 
the  Bartons  never  dined  at  Dungory  Castle  except 
on  state  occasions  ;  and  it  was  well-known  that  the 
Ladies  Cullen  hated  Mrs.  Barton  with  a  hatred  as 
venomous  as  the  poison  hid  in  the  fangs  of  adders. 

But  Lord  Dungory  knew  how  to  charm  his  tame 
snakes.  For  fortune  they  had  but  five  thousand 
pounds  each,  and,  although  freedom  and  a  London 
lodging  were  often  dreamed  of,  the  flesh-pots  of 
Dungory  Castle  continued  to  be  purchased  at  the 
price   of    smiles   and   civil   words   exchanged   with 


24  MUSLIN 

Mrs.  Barton.  Besides,  as  they  grew  old  and  ugly, 
the  Ladies  Cullen  had  developed  an  inordinate 
passion  for  the  conversion  of  souls.  They  had 
started  a  school  of  their  own  in  opposition  to  the 
National  school,  which  was  under  the  direction  of 
the  priest,  and  to  persuade  the  peasants  to  read  the 
Bible  and  to  eat  bacon  on  Friday,  were  good  works 
that  could  not  be  undertaken  without  funds ;  and 
these  were  obtained,  it  was  said,  by  the  visits  of  the 
Ladies  Cullen  to  Brookfield. 

Mrs.  Gould  declared  she  could  estimate  to  a 
fraction  the  prosperity  of  Protestantism  in  the  parish 
by  the  bows  these  ladies  exchanged  with  Mrs.  Barton 
when  their  carriages  crossed  on  the  roads. 

'  Here  are  the  saffron  buns  at  last,  my  dear 
children;'  and  Mrs.  Barton  pressed  them  upon  her 
girls,  saying  that  Milord  had  brought  them  from 
Dungory  Castle  especially  for  them.  '  Take  a  bottom 
piece,  Olive,  and  Alice,  you  really  must.  .  .  .  Well,  if 
you  won't  eat,  tell  Milord  about  your  play  of  King 
Cophetua  and  the  beggar-maid.  Arthur,  tell  me,  how 
did  you  like  the  play,  and  how  did  the  nuns  like  it  ? 
To  think  of  my  daughter,  so  prim  and  demure, 
writing  a  play,  and  on  such  a  subject.' 

'  But,  mamma,  what  is  there  odd  in  the  subject  ? 
We  all  know  the  old  ballad.' 

'  Yes,  we  all  know  the  ballad,'  Arthur  answered  ; 
'  I  sing  stanzas  of  it  to  the  guitar  myself.'  He  began 
to  chant  to  himself,  and  Mrs.  Barton  listened,  her 
face  slanted  in  the  pose  of  the  picture  of  Lady 
Hamilton  ;  and  Miloi-d  rejoiced  in  the  interlude, 
for  it  gave  him  opportunity  to  meditate.  Anna 
(Mrs.  Barton)  seemed  to  him  more  charming  and 


MUSLIN  25 

attractive  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  as  she  sat 
in  the  quiet  shadow  of  the  verandah  :  beyond  the 
verandah,  behind  her,  the  autumn  sunshine  fell  across 
the  shelving  meadows.  A  quiet  harmony  reigned 
over  Brookfield.  The  rooks  came  flapping  home 
through  the  sunlight,  and  when  Arthur  had  ceased 
humming  Mrs.  Barton  said  : 

1  And  now,  my  dear  children,  if  you  have  finished 
your  tea,  come,  and  I  will  show  you  your  room.' 

She  did  not  leave  the  verandah,  however,  without 
paying  a  pretty  compliment  to  Milord,  one  that  set 
him  thinking  how  miserable  his  life  would  have  been 
with  his  three  disagreeable  daughters  if  he  had  not 
fallen  in  with  this  enchantment.  He  remembered 
that  it  had  lasted  for  nearly  twenty  years,  and  it  was 
as  potent  as  ever.  In  what  did  it  consist,  he  asked 
himself.  He  sometimes  thought  her  laughter  too 
abundant,  sometimes  it  verged  on  merriment.  He 
did  not  like  to  think  of  Anna  as  a  merry  woman  ; 
he  preferred  to  think  that  wherever  she  went  she 
brought  happiness  with  her.  He  had  known  her 
sad,  but  never  melancholy,  for  she  was  never  with- 
out a  smile  even  when  she  was  melancholy. 

Awakening  from  his  reverie  he  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  Arthur's,  and,  with  a  certain  parade  of 
interest,  asked  him  if  he  had  been  to  the  Academy. 

1  Did  you  see  anything,  Arthur,  that  in  design 
approached  your  picture  of  Julius  Ccesar  overturning 
the  Altars  of  the  Druids  ?' 

'  There  were  some  beautiful  bits  of  painting  there,' 
replied  Arthur,  whose  modesty  forbade  him  to  answer 
the  question  directly.  '  I  saw  some  lovely  land- 
scapes,  and   there   were   some    babies'    frocks,'    he 


26  MUSLIN 

added  satirically.     fIn  one  of  these  pictures  I  saw  a 
rattle  painted  to  perfection.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  yes !  You  don't  like  the  pettiness  of 
family  feeling  dragged  into  art ;  but  if  you  only  con- 
descend to  take  a  little  more  notice  of  the  craft — the 
craft  is,  after  all ' 

'  I  am  carried  along  too  rapidly  by  my  feelings. 
I  feel  that  I  must  get  my  idea  on  canvas.  But  when 
I  was  in  London  I  saw  such  a  lovely  woman — one  of 
the  most  exquisite  creatures  possible  to  imagine  ! 
Oh,  so  sweet,  and  so  feminine  !  I  have  it  all  in  my 
head.     I  shall  do  something  like  her  to-morrow.' 

Here  he  began  to  sketch  with  his  stick  in  the 
dust,  and  from  his  face  it  might  be  judged  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  invisible  result.     At  last  he  said  : 

'  You  needn't  say  anything  about  it,  but  she  sent 
me  some  songs,  with  accompaniments  written  for 
the  guitar.  You  shall  hear  some  of  the  songs  to- 
night.  .   .   .     Ah,  there  is  the  dinner-bell !' 

Olive  was  placed  next  to  Milord,  and  the  com- 
pliments paid  to  her  by  the  old  courtier  delighted 
her.  She  pretended  to  understand  when  he  said : 
e  La  Jemme  est  comme  une  ombre  :  si  vous  la  suivez,  elle 
vous  fuit ;  si  vous  fuyez,  elle  vous  poursuit.'  A  little 
later  the  champagne  she  had  drunk  set  her  laughing 
hysterically,  and  she  begged  him  to  translate  (he 
had  just  whispered  to  her  mother,  '  L' amour  est  la 
conscience  du  plaisir  donne  el  regu,  la  certitude  de  donner 
et  de  recevoir')  ;  and  he  would  have  complied  with 
her  request,  but  Mrs.  Barton  forbade  him.  Alice, 
who  had  understood,  found  herself  obliged  to  say 
that  she  had  not  understood,  which  little  fib  begot  a 
little  annoyance    in    her   against  her  mother  ;  and 


MUSLIN  27 

Milord,  as  if  he  thought  that  he  had  been  guilty  of 
a  slight  indiscretion,  said,  addressing  himself  to  both 
girls  :  '  Gardes  bien  ros  illusions,  inon  enfant,  car  les 
illusions  sont  le  miroir  de  U  amour.' 

'  Ah  !  mats  il  ne  faul  pas  couvrir  trop  I '  abimc  arec  des 
fleurs,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  as  a  sailor  from  his  point  of 
vantage  might  cry,  '  Rocks  ahead  !' 

Arthur  only  joined  occasionally  in  the  conversa- 
tion ;  he  gazed  long  and  ardently  on  his  daughter, 
and  then  sketched  with  his  thumb-nail  on  the  cloth, 
and  when  they  arose  from  the  table,  Mrs.  Barton 
said  : 

1  Now,  now,  I  am  not  going  to  alloAV  you  gentle- 
men to  spend  any  more  time  over  your  wine.  This 
is  our  first  evening  together;  come  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  us,  and  we  shall  have  some  music' 

Like  most  men  of  an  unevenly  balanced  mind, 
Arthur  loved  an  eccentric  costume,  and  soon  after 
he  appeared  in  a  long-tasselled  cap  and  a  strangely 
coloured  smoking  jacket ;  he  wore  a  pair  of  high- 
heeled  brocaded  slippers,  and,  twanging  a  guitar, 
hummed  to  himself  plaintively.  Then,  when  he 
thought  he  had  been  sufficiently  admired,  he  sang 
A  che  la  morte,  II  Balen,  and  several  other  Italian 
airs,  in  which  frequent  allusion  was  made  to  the 
inconstancy  of  woman's  and  the  truth  of  man's  affec- 
tion. At  every  pause  in  the  music  these  sentiments 
were  laughingly  contested  by  Mrs.  Barton.  She 
appealed  to  Milord.  He  never  had  had  anything 
to  complain  of.  Was  it  not  well  known  that  the 
poor  woman  had  been  only  too  true  to  him  ?  Finally, 
it  was  arranged  there  should  be  a  little  dancing. 

As  Mrs.  Barton  said,  it  was  of  great  importance  to 


28  MUSLIN 

know  if  Olive  knew  the  right  step,  and  who  could 
put  her  up  to  all  the  latest  fashions  as  well  as 
Milord  ?  The  old  gentleman  replied  in  French,  and 
settled  his  waistcoat,  fearing  the  garment  was  doing 
him  an  injustice. 

'  But  who  is  to  play  ?'  asked  the  poetical-looking 
Arthur,  who,  on  the  highest  point  of  the  sofa, 
hummed  and  tuned  his  guitar  after  true  troubadour 
fashion. 

c  Alice  will  play  us  a  waltz/  said  Mrs.  Barton 
winningly. 

'  Oh  yes,  Alice  dear,  play  us  a  waltz,'  cried  Olive. 

c  You  know  how  stupid  I  am  ;  I  can't  play  a  note 
without  my  music,  and  it  is  all  locked  up  in  my 
trunk  upstairs.' 

'  It  won't  take  you  a  minute  to  get  it  out,'  said 
Mrs.  Barton  ;  and  moving,  as  if  she  were  on  wheels, 
towards  her  daughter,  she  whispered  :  '  Do  as  I  tell 
you — run  upstairs  at  once  and  get  your  music' 

She  looked  questioningly  at  her  mother  and  hesi- 
tated. But  Mrs.  Barton  had  a  way  of  compelling 
obedience,  and  the  girl  went  upstairs,  to  return  soon 
after  with  a  roll  of  music.  At  the  best  of  times  she 
had  little  love  of  the  art,  but  now,  sick  with  dis- 
appointment, and  weary  from  a  long  railway  journey, 
to  spell  through  the  rhythm  of  the  My  Queen  Waltz 
and  the  jangle  of  U  Esprit  Franqais  was  to  her  an 
odious  and,  when  the  object  of  it  was  considered,  an 
abominable  duty  to  perform.  She  had  to  keep  her 
whole  attention  fixed  on  the  page  before  her,  but 
when  she  raised  her  eyes  the  picture  she  saw  en- 
graved itself  on  her  mind.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
she   could   forget  Olive's   blond,  cameo-like    profile 


MUSLIN  29 

seen  leaning  over  the  old  beau's  fat  shoulder.  Mrs. 
Barton  laughed  and  laughed  again,  declaring  the 
while  that  it  was  la  grace  et  la  beaute  rdtinies.  Mr. 
Barton  shouted  and  twanged  in  measure,  the  excite- 
ment gaining  on  him  until  he  rushed  at  his  wife, 
and,  seizing  her  round  the  waist,  whirled  her  and 
whirled  her,  holding  his  guitar  above  her  head.  At 
last  they  bumped  against  Milord,  and  shot  the  old 
man  and  his  burden  on  to  the  nearest  sofa.  Then 
Alice,  who  thought  her  mission  at  the  piano  was 
over,  rose  to  go,  but  Mrs.  Barton  ordered  her  to 
resume  her  seat,  and  the  dancing  was  continued  till 
the  carriage  came  up  the  gravel  sweep  to  fetch 
Miloi'd  away.  This  was  generally  about  half-past 
eleven,  and  as  he  muffled  himself  up  in  overcoats, 
the  girls  were  told  to  cram  his  pockets  with  cigarettes 
and  bon-bons. 

'  Bedad,  I  think  it  is  revolvers  and  policemen  you 
ought  to  be  givin'  me,  not  swatemates,'  he  said, 
affecting  a  brogue. 

1  Oh  yes,  is  it  not  dreadful  ?'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Barton.  c  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  if  the 
Government  don't  put  down  the  Land  League  ;  we 
shall  all  be  shot  in  our  beds  some  night.  Did  you 
hear  of  that  murder  the  other  day  ?' 

'  And  it  is  said  there  will  be  no  rents  collected 
this  year,'  said  Mr.  Barton,  as  he  tightened  one  of 
the  strings  of  his  guitar. 

•  Oh,  do  cease  that  noise  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton.  '  And 
tell  me,  Lord  Dungory,  will  the  Government  refuse 
us  soldiers  and  police  to  put  the  people  out  ?' 

'  If  we  go  to  the  Castle,  we  shall  want  more  money 
to  buy  dresses,'  said  Olive. 


30  MUSLIN 

c  La  mer  a  ton  jours  son  ccume  pour  habiller  ses  deesses, 
replied  Milord  ;  and  he  got  into  his  carriage  amid 
pearly  peals  of  laughter  from  Mrs.  Barton,  inter- 
mingled with  a  few  high  notes  from  Olive,  who  had 
already  taken  to  mimicking  her  mother. 


Mr.  Barton,  or  Arthur,  as  he  was  usually  called, 
always  returned  to  his  studio  immediately  after 
breakfast,  and,  as  Mrs.  Barton  had  domestic  duties 
to  attend  to,  the  girls  were  left  to  themselves  to 
appreciate  their  return  home  from  school  and  look 
forward  to  their  entry  into  the  life  of  the  world. 

The  two  girls  descended  the  stairs  with  their 
summer  hats  and  sunshades,  and  Alice  stopped  at 
the  door  of  the  schoolroom.  It  was  here  that,  only 
a  few  years  ago,  she  had  interceded  with  the  dear 
old  governess,  and  aided  Olive  to  master  the  diffi- 
culties against  which  the  light  brain  could  not 
contend  singly — the  hardships  of  striving  to  recall 
the  number  of  continents  the  world  possesses,  the 
impossibility  of  learning  to  say  definitely  if  seven 
times  four  made  twenty-eight  or  thirty. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  under  the  stairs  the 
children  used  to  play  for  hours,  building  strange 
houses  out  of  boxes  of  bricks,  or  dressing  dolls  in 
fantastic  costumes.  Olive  had  forgotten,  but  Alice 
remembered,  and  her  thoughts  wandered  through 
the  land  of  toys.  The  box  of  bricks  had  come  from 
an  aunt  that  was  now  dead ;  the  big  doll  mother 
had  brought  from  Dublin  when  she  went  to  see  the 


MUSLIN  31 

oculist  about  her  eyes ;  and  then  there  were  other 
toys  that  suggested  nothing,  and  whose  history  was 
entire])'  forgotten.  But  the  clock  that  stood  in  the 
passage  was  well  remembered,  and  Alice  thought 
how  this  old-fashioned  timepiece  used  to  be  the 
regulator  and  confidant  of  all  their  joys  and  hopes. 
She  saw  herself  again  listening,  amid  her  sums,  for 
the  welcome  voice  that  would  call  her  away;  she 
saw  herself  again  examining  its  grave  face  and 
striving  to  calculate,  with  childish  eagerness,  if  she 
would  have  time  to  build  another  Tower  of  Babel  or 
put  another  tack  in  the  doll's  frock  before  the  ruth- 
less iron  tongue  struck  the  fatal  hour. 

*  Olive,  is  it  possible  you  don't  remember  how  we 
used  to  listen  to  the  dear  old  clock  when  we  were 
children  ?' 

'  You  are  a  funny  girl,  Alice  ;  you  remember 
everything.  Fancy  thinking  of  that  old  clock !  I 
hated  it,  for  it  brought  me  to  lessons  when  it  struck 
eleven.' 

'  Yes,  but  it  brought  you  out  to  play  when  it 
struck  twelve.  See  !  the  hands  are  just  on  the 
hour  ;  let  us  wait  to  hear  it  strike.' 

The  girls  listened  vainly  for  a  sound ;  and  Alice 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  apprised  of  the  loss  of  a  tried 
friend  when  one  of  the  servants  told  them  the  clock 
had  been  broken  some  years  ago. 

The  kitchen  windows  looked  on  a  street  made  by 
a  line  of  buildings  parallel  with  the  house.  These 
were  the  stables  and  outhouses,  and  they  formed 
one  of  the  walls  of  the  garden  that  lay  behind, 
sheltered  on  the  north  side  by  a  thin  curtain  of 
beeches,   filled    every    evening    with    noisy   rooks ; 


32  MUSLIN 

and,  coming  round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  the 
girls  lingered  beneath  the  chestnut-trees,  and  in  the 
rosary,  where  a  little  fountain  played  when  visitors 
were  present,  and  then  stood  leaning  over  the 
wooden  paling  that  defended  the  pleasure-ground 
from  the  cows  that  grazed  in  the  generous  expanse 
of  grass  extending  up  to  the  trees  of  the  Lawler 
domain.  Brookfield  was  therefore  without  preten- 
sions— it  could  hardly  be  called  'a  place' — but,  mani- 
folded in  dreams  past  and  present,  it  extended 
indefinitely  before  Alice's  eyes,  and,  absorbed  by 
the  sad  sweetness  of  retrospection,  she  lingered 
while  Olive  ran  through  the  rosary  from  the  stables 
and  back  again,  calling  to  her  sister,  making  the 
sunlight  ring  with  her  light  laughter.  She  refrained, 
therefore,  from  reminding  her  that  it  was  here  they 
used  to  play  with  Nell,  the  old  setter,  and  that  it 
was  there  they  gave  bread  to  the  blind  beggar ; 
Olive  had  no  heart  for  these  things,  and  when  she 
admired  the  sleek  carriage-horses  that  had  lately 
been  bought  to  take  them  to  balls  and  tennis- 
pai-ties,  Alice  thought  of  the  old  brown  mare  that 
used  to  take  them  for  such  delightful  drives. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Barton's  voice  was  heard  calling. 
Milord  had  arrived  :  they  were  to  go  into  the 
garden  and  pick  a  few  flowers  to  make  a  buttonhole 
for  him.  Olive  darted  off  at  once  to  execute  the 
commission,  and  soon  returned  with  a  rose  set  round 
with  stephanotis.  The  old  lord,  seated  in  the 
dining-room,  in  an  arm-chair  which  Mrs.  Barton  had 
drawn  up  to  the  window  so  that  he  might  enjoy  the 
air,  sipped  his  sherry,  and  Alice,  as  she  entered  the 
room,  heard  him  say : 


MUSLIN  S3 

{ Quand  on  aime  on  est  toujours  bien  portant.' 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  Mrs.  Barton,  who 
already  suspected  her  of  secret  criticism,  whispered, 
as  she  glided  across  the  room  : 

1  Now,  my  dear  girl,  go  and  talk  to  Milord  and 
make  yourself  agreeable.' 

The  girl  felt  she  was  incapable  of  this,  and  it 
pained  her  to  listen  to  her  sister's  facile  hilarity, 
and  her  mother's  coaxing  observations.  Milord  did 
not,  however,  neglect  her  ;  he  made  suitable  remarks 
concerning  her  school  successes,  and  asked  appro- 
priate questions  anent  her  little  play  of  King 
Cophetua.  But  whatever  interest  the  subject  pos- 
sessed was  found  in  the  fact  that  Olive  had  taken 
the  part  of  the  Princess  ;  and,  re-arranging  the  story 
a  little,  Mrs.  Barton  declared,  with  a  shower  of  little 
laughs,  and  many  waves  of  the  white  hands,  that 
•  my  lady  there  had  refused  a  King ;  a  nice  beginning, 
indeed,  and  a  pleasant  future  for  her  chaperon.' 

The  few  books  the  house  possessed  lay  on  the 
drawing-room  table,  or  were  piled,  in  dusty  con- 
fusion, in  the  bookcase  in  Mr.  Barton's  studio ;  and, 
thinking  of  them,  Alice  determined  she  would  pay 
her  father  a  visit  in  his  studio. 

At  her  knock  he  ceased  singing  77  Balen,  and 
cried,  ( Come  in  !' 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  papa;  I'm  afraid  I  am  inter- 
rupting you.' 

'  Not  at  all — not  at  all,  I  assure  you  ;  come  in.  I 
will  have  a  cigarette ;  there  is  nothing  like  recon- 
sidering one's  work  through  the  smoke  of  a  cigarette. 
The  most  beautiful  pictures  I  have  ever  seen  I  have 
seen  in  the  smoke  of  a  cigarette ;  nothing  can  beat 
c 


84  MUSLIN 

those,  particularly  if  you  are  lying  back  looking  up 
at  a  dirty  ceiling.' 

War  and  women  were  the  two  poles  of  Arthur's 
mind.  Cain  shielding  his  Wife  from  Wild  Beasts 
had  often  been  painted,  numberless  Bridals  of 
Triermain ;  and  as  for  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines,  it 
seemed  as  if  it  could  never  be  sufficiently  accom- 
plished. Opposite  the  door  was  a  huge  design 
representing  Samson  and  Delilah ;  opposite  the 
fireplace,  Julius  Caisar  overturning  the  Altars  of  the 
Druids  occupied  nearly  the  entire  wall.  Nymphs 
and  tigers  were  scattered  in  between ;  canvases 
were  also  propped  against  almost  every  piece  of 
furniture. 

At  last  Alice's  eyes  were  suddenly  caught  by  a 
picture  representing  three  women  bathing.  It  was 
a  very  rough  sketch,  but,  before  she  had  time  to 
examine  it,  Arthur  turned  it  against  the  wall.  Why 
he  hid  two  pictures  from  her  she  could  not  help 
wondering.  It  could  not  be  for  propriety's  sake, 
for  there  were  nudities  on  every  side  of  her. 

Then,  lying  upon  the  sofa,  he  explained  how 
So-and-so  had  told  him,  when  he  was  a  boy  in 
London,  that  no  one  since  Michael  Angelo  had 
been  able  to  design  as  he  could ;  how  he  had 
modelled  a  colossal  statue  of  Lucifer  before  he  was 
sixteen,  how  he  had  painted  a  picture  of  the  Battle 
of  Arbela,  forty  feet  by  twenty,  before  he  was 
eighteen ;  but  that  was  of  no  use,  the  world  now- 
adays only  cared  for  execution,  and  he  could  not 
wait  until  he  had  got  the  bit  of  ribbon  in  Delilah's 
hair  to  look  exactly  like  silk. 

Alice  listened  to  her  father  babbling,  her  heart 


MUSLIN  35 

and  her  mind  at  variance.  A  want  of  knowledge  of 
painting  might  blind  her  to  the  effects  of  his  pictures 
(there  was  in  them  all  a  certain  crude  merit  of 
design),  but  it  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  they 
were  lacking  in  something,  in  what  she  could  not 
say,  having  no  knowledge  of  painting.  Nor  was 
she  sure  that  her  father  believed  in  his  pictures, 
though  he  had  just  declared  they  had  all  the 
beauties  of  Raphael  and  other  beauties  besides.  He 
had  a  trick  of  never  appearing  to  thoroughly  believe 
in  them  and  in  himself.  She  listened  interested 
and  amused,  not  knowing  how  to  take  him.  She 
had  been  away  at  school  for  nearly  ten  years,  coming 
home  for  rare  holidays,  and  was,  therefore,  without 
any  real  knowledge  of  her  parents.  She  understood 
her  father  even  less  than  her  mother  ;  but  she  was 
certain  that  if  he  were  not  a  great  genius  he  might 
have  been  one,  and  she  resolved  to  find  out  Lord 
Dungory's  opinions  on  her  father.  But  the  oppor- 
tunity for  five  minutes  quiet  chat  behind  her 
mother's  back  did  not  present  itself.  As  soon  as 
he  arrived  her  mother  sent  her  out  of  the  room 
on  some  pretext  more  or  less  valid,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  week  the  gowns  that  had  been  ordered  in 
Dublin  arrived :  ecstasy  consumed  the  house,  and 
she  heard  him  say  that  he  would  give  a  great 
dinner-party  to  show  them  off. 

VI 

Arthur,  who  i*arely  dined  out,  handed  the  ladies 
into  the  carriage. 

Mrs.  Barton  was  beautifully  dressed  in  black  satin  ; 


36  MUSLIN 

Olive  was  lost  in  a  mass  of  tulle  ;  Alice  wore  a  black 
silk  trimmed  with  passementerie  and  red  ribbons. 
Behind  the  Clare  mountains  the  pale  transitory 
colours  of  the  hour  faded,  and  the  women,  their 
bodies  and  their  thoughts  swayed  together  by  the 
motion  of  the  vehicle,  listened  to  the  irritating 
barking  of  the  cottage-dog.  Surlily  a  peasant, 
returning  from  his  work,  his  frieze  coat  swung  over 
one  shoulder,  stepped  aside.  A  bare-legged  woman, 
surrounded  by  her  half-naked  children,  leaving  the 
potato  she  was  peeling  in  front  of  her  door,  gazed, 
like  her  husband,  after  the  rolling  vision  of  elegance 
that  went  by  her,  and  her  obtuse  brain  probably 
summed  up  the  implacable  decrees  of  Destiny  in 
the  phrase : 

'Shure  there  misht  be  a  gathering  at  the  big 
house  this  evening.' 

( But  tell  me,  mamma/  said  Olive,  after  a  long 
silence,  '  how  much  champagne  ought  I  to  drink  at 
dinner  ?  You  know,  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have 
tasted  it.  Indeed,  I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  did 
taste  it.' 

Mrs.  Barton  laughed  softly  : 

'Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  that  two  glasses 
could  do  you  any  harm  ;  but  I  would  not  advise  you 
to  drink  any  more.' 

'  And  what  shall  I  say  to  the  man  who  takes  me 
down  to  dinner  ?  Shall  I  have  to  begin  the  conver- 
sation, or  will  he  ?' 

'  He  will  be  sure  to  say  something ;  you  need  not 
trouble  yourself  about  that.  I  think  we  shall  meet 
some  nice  men  to-night.  Captain  Hibbert  will  be 
there.      He  is  very  handsome  and  well-connected. 


MUSLIN  37 

I  hope  he  will  take  you  down.  Then  there  will  be 
the  Honourable  Mr.  Burke.  He  is  a  nice  little  man, 
but  there's  not  much  in  him,  and  he  hasn't  a  penny. 
His  brother  is  Lord  Kilcarney,  a  confirmed  bachelor. 
Then  there  will  be  Mr.  Adair ;  he  is  very  well  off. 
He  has  at  least  four  thousand  a  year  in  the  country  ; 
but  it  would  seem  that  he  doesn't  care  for  women. 
He  is  very  clever ;  he  writes  pamphlets.  He  used 
to  sympathize  with  the  Land  League,  but  the  out- 
rages went  against  his  conscience.  You  never  know 
what  he  really  does  think.  He  admires  Gladstone, 
and  Gladstone  says  he  can't  do  without  him.' 

They  had  now  passed  the  lodge-gates,  and  were 
driving  through  the  park.  Herds  of  fallow  deer 
moved  away,  but  the  broad  bluff  forms  of  the  red 
deer  gazed  steadfastly  as  lions  from  the  crest  of 
a  hill. 

*  Did  you  ever  meet  Lady  Dungory,  mamma  ?' 
asked  Alice.     f  Is  she  dead  ?' 

'  No,  dear,  she  is  not  dead  ;  but  it  would  be  better, 
perhaps,  if  she  were.  She  behaved  very  badly.  Lord 
Dungory  had  to  get  a  separation.  No  one  ever 
speaks  of  her  now.     Mind,  you  are  warned  !' 

At  this  moment  the  carriage  stopped  before  a 
modern  house,  built  between  two  massive  Irish 
towers  entirely  covered  with  huge  ivy. 

'  I  am  afraid  we  are  a  little  late,'  said  Mrs.  Barton 
to  the  servant,  as  he  relieved  them  of  their  sorties 
de  bal. 

'Eight  o'clock  has  just  struck,  ma'am.' 

'  The  two  old  things  will  make  faces  at  us,  I 
know,'  murmured  Mrs.  Barton,  as  she  ascended  the 
steps. 


38  MUSLIN 

On  either  side  there  were  cases  of  stuffed  birds  ; 
a  fox  lay  in  wait  for  a  pheasant  on  the  right ;  an 
otter  devoured  a  trout  on  the  left.  These  attested 
the  sporting  tastes  of  a  former  generation.  The 
white  marble  statues  of  nymphs  sleeping  in  the 
shadows  of  the  different  landings  and  the  Oriental 
draperies  with  which  each  cabinet  was  hung 
suggested  the  dilettantism  of  the  present  owner. 

Mrs.  Barton  walked  on  in  front ;  the  girls  drew 
together  like  birds.  They  were  amazed  at  the 
stateliness  of  the  library,  and  they  marvelled  at  the 
richness  of  the  chandeliers  and  the  curiously  assorted 
pictures.  The  company  was  assembled  in  a  small 
room  at  the  end  of  the  suite. 

Two  tall,  bony,  high -nosed  women  advanced  and 
shook  hands  menacingly  with  Mrs.  Barton.  They 
were  dressed  alike  in  beautiful  gowns  of  gold-brown 
plush. 

With  a  cutting  stare  and  a  few  cold  conventional 
words,  they  welcomed  Olive  and  Alice  home  to  the 
country  again.  Lord  Dungory  whispered  something 
to  Mrs.  Barton.  Olive  passed  across  the  room ;  the 
black  coats  gave  way,  and,  as  a  white  rose  in  a 
blood-coloured  glass,  her  shoulders  rose  out  of  the 
red  tulle.  Captain  Hibbert  twisted  his  brown-gold 
moustache,  and,  with  the  critical  gaze  of  the  con- 
noisseur, examined  the  undulating  lines  of  the  arms, 
the  delicate  waist,  and  the  sloping  hips :  her  skirts 
seemed  to  fall  before  his  looks. 

Immediately  after,  the  roaring  of  a  gong  was 
heard,  and  the  form  of  the  stately  butler  was  seen 
approaching.  Lord  Dungory  and  Lady  Jane  ex- 
changed looks.     The  former  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs. 


MUSLIN  39 

Gould  ;  the  latter,  her  finger  on  her  lips,  in  a  move- 
ment expressive  of  profound  meditation,  said  : 

'  Mr.  Ryan,  will  you  take  down  Mrs.  Barton  ; 
Mr.  Scully,  will  you  take  Miss  Olive  Barton ;  Mr. 
Adair,  will  you  take  Miss  Gould  ;  Mr.  Lynch,  will 
you  take  Miss  Alice  Barton  ;  Mr.  Burke,  will  you 
take  my  sister  ?'  Then,  smiling  at  the  thought  that 
she  had  checkmated  her  father,  who  had  ordered 
that  Olive  Barton  should  go  down  with  Captain 
Hibbert,  she  took  Captain  Hibbert's  arm,  and 
followed  the  dinner-party.  About  the  marble  statues 
and  stuffed  birds  on  the  staircase  flowed  a  murmur 
of  amiability,  and,  during  a  pause,  skirts  were  settled 
amid  the  chairs,  which  the  powdered  footmen  drew 
back  ceremoniously  to  make  way  for  the  guests  to 
pass. 

A  copy  of  Murillo's  Madonna  presenting  the  Divine 
Child  to  St.  Joseph  hung  over  the  fireplace ;  between 
the  windows  another  Madonna  stood  on  a  half-moon, 
and  when  Lord  Dungory  said,  e  For  what  we  are 
going  to  receive,  the  Lord  make  us  truly  thankful,' 
these  pictures  helped  the  company  to  realize  a 
suitable,  although  momentary  emotion. 

Turtle  soup  was  handed  round.  The  soft  steaming 
fragrance  mixed  with  the  fresh  perfume  of  the  roses 
that  bloomed  in  a  silver  vase  beneath  the  light  of 
the  red-shaded  wax  candles.  A  tree  covered  with 
azaleas  spread  notes  of  delicate  colour  over  the  gold 
screen  that  hid  the  door  by  which  the  servants  came 
and  went. 

'  Oh,  Lady  Sarah/  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gould,  '  I  do 
not  know  how  you  have  such  beautiful  flowers — and 
in  this  wretched  climate  !' 


40  MUSLIN 

'  Yes,  it  is  very  trying ;  but  then  we  have  a  great 
deal  of  glass.' 

'  Which  do  you  prefer,  roses  or  azaleas  ?'  asked 
Mrs.  Barton. 

'  Les  roses  sont  les  Jleurs  en  corsage,  inais  les  azaUes 
sont  les  Jleurs  en  peignoir,' 

Lady  Sarah  and  Lady  Jane,  who  had  both  over- 
heard the  remark,  levelled  indignant  glances  at  their 
father,  scornful  looks  at  Mrs.  Barton,  and,  to  avoid 
further  amatory  allusions,  Lady  Sarah  said : 

'  I  do  not  think  we  shall  soon  have  bread,  much 
less  flowers,  to  place  on  our  tables,  if  the  Govern- 
ment do  not  step  in  and  put  down  the  revolution 
that  is  going  on  in  this  country.' 

Everyone,  except  the  young  girls,  looked  ques- 
tioningly  at  each  other,  and  the  mutuality  of  their 
interests  on  this  point  became  at  once  apparent. 

'  Ah,  Lord  Dungory  !  do  you  think  we  shall  be 
able  to  collect  our  rents  this  year  ?  What  reduction 
do  you  intend  to  give  ?' 

Lord  Dungory,  who  had  no  intention  of  showing 
his  hand,  said  : 

c  The  Land  League  has,  I  believe,  advised  the 
people  to  pay  no  more  than  Griffith's  valuation.  I 
do  not  know  if  your  lands  are  let  very  much  above  it  ?' 

'  If  you  have  not  seen  the  Evening  Mail  you  have 
probably  not  heard  of  the  last  terrible  outrage,'  said 
Captain  Hibbert;  and,  amid  a  profound  silence,  he  con- 
tinued :  '  I  do  not  know  if  anybody  here  is  acquainted 
with  a  Mr.  Macnamara ;  he  lives  in  Meath.' 

'  Oh  !  you  don't  say  anything  has  happened  to 
him  ?     I  knew  his  cousin/  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gould. 

Captain    Hibbert   looked   round   with    his  bland, 


MUSLIN  41 

good-looking  stare,  and,  as  no  nearer  relative  ap- 
peared to  be  present,  he  resumed  his  story : 

'He  was,  it  seems,  sitting  smoking  after  dinner, 
when  suddenly  two  shots  were  fired  through  the 
windows.' 

At  this  moment  a  champagne-cork  slipped  through 
the  butler's  fingers  and  went  off  with  a  bang. 

'  Oh,  goodness  me  !  what's  that  ?'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Gould  ;  and,  to  pass  off  their  own  fears,  everyone 
was  glad  to  laugh  at  the  old  lady.  It  was  not  until 
Captain  Hibbert  told  that  Mr.  Macnamara  had  been 
so  severely  wounded  that  his  life  was  despaired  of, 
that  the  chewing  faces  became  grave  again. 

1  And  I  hear  that  Macnamara  had  the  foinest 
harses  in  Mathe,'  said  Mr.  Ryan  ;  '  I  very  nearly 
sold  him  one  last  year  at  the  harse  show.' 

Mr.  Ryan  was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  country, 
and  a  list  of  the  grotesque  sayings  he  was  supposed, 
on  different  occasions,  to  have  been  guilty  of,  was 
constantly  in  progress  of  development.  He  lived 
with  his  cousin,  Mr.  Lynch,  and,  in  conjunction, 
they  farmed  large  tracts  of  land.  Mr.  Ryan  was 
short  and  thick  ;  Mr.  Lynch  was  taller  and  larger, 
and  a  pair  of  mutton-chop  whiskers  made  his  bloated 
face  look  bigger  still.  On  either  side  of  the  white 
tablecloth  their  dirty  hands  fumbled  at  their  shirt- 
studs,  that  constantly  threatened  to  fall  through  the 
worn  buttonholes.  They  were,  nevertheless,  re- 
ceived everywhere,  and  Pathre,  as  Mr.  Ryan  was 
called  by  his  friends,  was  permitted  the  licences 
that  are  usually  granted  to  the  buffoon. 

'  Arrah !'  he  said,  '  I  wouldn't  moind  the  lague 
being  hard  on  them  who  lives  out  of  the  counthry, 


42  MUSLIN 

spendin'  their  cash  on  liquor  and  theatres  in  Lon- 
don ;  but  what  can  they  have  agin  us  who  stops  at 
home,  mindin'  our  properties  and  riding  our  harses  ?' 

This  criticism  of  justice,  as  administered  by  the 
league,  did  not,  however,  seem  to  meet  with  the 
entire  approval  of  those  present.  Mr.  Adair  looked 
grave  ;  he  evidently  thought  it  was  based  on  a  super- 
ficial notion  of  political  economy.  Mr.  Burke,  a  very 
young  man  with  a  tiny  red  moustache  and  a  curious 
habit  of  wriggling  his  long  weak  neck,  feeling  his 
amusements  were  being  unfairly  attacked,  broke  the 
silence  he  had  till  then  preserved,  and  said : 

I  haven't  an  acre  of  land  in  the  woi'ld,  but  if  my 
brother  chooses  to  live  in  London,  I  don't  see  why 
he  should  be  deprived  of  his  rents.  For  my  part,  I 
like  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  and  so  does  my  brother. 
Have  you  seen  the  Forty  Thieves,  Lady  Jane  ? 
Capital  piece — I  saw  it  twenty  times.' 

'  I  think  what  Pathre,  me  cousin,  means  to  say,' 
said  Mr.  Lynch,  declining  the  venison  the  servant 
offered  him,  '  is  that  there  are  many  in  the  country 
who  don't  deserve  much  consideration.  I  am  allud- 
ing to  those  who  acquired  their  property  in  the  land 
courts,  and  the  Cromwellians,  and  the — I  mean  the 
rack-renters.' 

The  sudden  remembrance  that  Lord  Dungory 
dated  from  the  time  of  James  so  upset  Mr.  Lynch 
that  he  called  back  the  servant  and  accepted  the 
venison,  which  he  failed,  however,  to  eat. 

'  I  do  not  see,'  said  Lord  Dungory,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  whose  words  are  conclusive,  '  why  we  should 
go  back  to  the  time  of  Cromwell  to  discuss  the 
rights  of  property  rather  than  to  that  of  the  early 


MUSLIN  43 

Kings  of  Ireland.  If  there  is  to  be  a  returning,  why 
not  at  once  put  in  a  claim  on  the  part  of  the  Irish 
Elk  ?  No !  there  must  be  some  finality  in  human 
affairs.'  And  on  this  phrase  the  conversation  came 
to  a  pause. 

But  if  the  opinions  of  those  present  were  not  in 
accord  concerning  the  rights  of  property,  their 
tastes  in  conversation  certainly  differed  as  widely. 
Olive's  white  face  twitched  from  time  to  time  with 
nervous  annoyance.  Alice  looked  up  in  a  sort  of 
mild  despair  as  she  strove  to  answer  Mr.  Lynch' s 
questions  ;  May  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  morose 
lassitude.  If  Mr.  Adair  would  only  cease  to  explain 
to  her  how  successfully  he  had  employed  concrete  in 
the  construction  of  his  farm-buildings  !  She  felt  that 
if  he  started  again  on  the  saw-mill  she  must  faint, 
and  Olive's  senses,  too,  were  swimming,  but  just 
as  she  thought  she  was  going  off  Captain  Hibbert 
looked  so  admiringly  at  her  that  she  recovered  her- 
self; and  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Scully  succeeded  in 
making  May  understand  that  he  would  infinitely 
prefer  to  be  near  her  than  Lady  Sax*ah.  In  return 
for  this  expression  of  feeling  the  young  lady  deter- 
mined to  risk  a  remark  across  the  table ;  but  she 
was  cut  short  by  Mrs.  Gould,  who  pithily  summed 
up  the  political  situation  in  the  words  : 

'  The  way  I  look  at  it  is  like  this  :  Will  the 
Government  help  us  to  get  our  rents,  or  will  it  not  ? 
Mr.  Forster's  Act  does  not  seem  to  be  able  to  do 
that.  There's  May  there  who  has  been  talking  all 
the  morning  of  Castle  seasons,  and  London  seasons, 
and  I  don't  know  what ;  really  I  don't  see  how  it  is 
to  be  done  if  the  Land  Leaeue ' 


44  MUSLIN 

'And  Mr.  Parnell's  a  gentleman,  too.  I  wonder 
how  he  can  ally  himself  with  such  blackguards/ 
gently  insinuated  Mrs.  Barton,  who  saw  a  husband 
lost  in  the  politician. 

But  the  difficulty  the  Government  find  them- 
selves in  is  that  the  Land  League  is  apparently  a 
legal  organization/  said  Lord  Dungory  in  the  midst 
of  a  profound  silence. 

1 A  society  legal,  that  exists  and  holds  its  power 
through  an  organized  system  of  outrage  !  Mind  you, 
as  I  have  always  said,  the  landlords  have  brought 
all  their  misfortunes  upon  themselves  ;  they  have 
often  behaved  disgracefully — but  I  would,  neverthe- 
less, put  down  the  outrages  ;  yes,  I  would  put  down 
the  outrages,  and  at  any  cost.' 

'  And  what  would  yer  do  ?'  asked  Mr.  Ryan.  '  De 
yer  know  that  the  herds  are  being  coerced  now  ? 
we'd  get  on  well  enough  were  it  not  for  that.' 

'  In  the  beginning  of  this  year  Mr.  Forster  asked 
Pai'liament  for  special  powers.  How  has  he  used 
those  powers  ?  Without  trial,  five  hundred  people 
have  been  thrown  into  prison,  and  each  fresh  arrest 
is  answered  by  a  fresh  outrage ;  and  when  the 
warrant  is  issued,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  issued 
sooner  or  later,  for  the  arrest  of  Mr.  Parnell,  I  should 
not  be  surprised  to  hear  of  a  general  strike  being 
made  against  rent.  The  consequences  of  such  an 
event  will  be  terrific  ;  but  let  these  consequences,  I 
say,  rest  on  Mr.  Forster's  head.  I  shall  have  no 
word  of  pity  for  him.  His  government  is  a  disgrace 
to  Liberalism,  and  I  fear  he  has  done  much  to  pre- 
judice our  ideal  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.' 

Lord  Dungory  and  Lady  Jane  exchanged  smiles ; 


MUSLIN  45 

and  poor  crotchety  Mr.  Adair  leaned  forward  his 
large,  bald  brow,  obscured  by  many  obscure  ideals. 
After  a  pause  he  continued  : 

'  But  I  was  speaking  of  Flanders.  From  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Fifth  the  most  severe  laws  were 
enacted  to  put  down  the  outrages,  but  there  was  an 
undercurrent  of  sympathy  with  the  outrage-monger 
which  kept  the  system  alive  until  1840.  Then  the 
Government  took  the  matter  in  hand,  and  treated 
outrage-mongering  as  what  it  is — an  act  of  war ;  and 
quartered  troops  on  the  inhabitants  and  stamped  the 
disease  out  in  a  few  years.  Of  course  I  could  not, 
and  would  not,  advocate  the  employment  of  such 
drastic  measures  in  Ireland  ;  but  I  would  put  down 
the  outrages  with  a  firm  hand,  and  I  would  render 
them  impossible  in  the  future  by  the  creation  of 
peasant-proprietors. ' 

Then,  amid  the  juicy  odours,  of  cut  pineapple,  and 
the  tepid  flavours  of  Burgundy,  Mr.  Adair  warmed 
to  his  subject,  and  proceeded  to  explain  that  absolute 
property  did  not  exist  in  land  in  Ireland  before  1 600, 
and,  illustrating  his  arguments  with  quotations  from 
Arthur  Young,  he  spoke  of  the  plantation  of  Ulster, 
the  leases  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  Protestants 
in  the  North,  the  employment  of  labour  ;  until,  at 
last,  inebriated  with  theory,  he  asked  the  company 
what  was  the  end  of  government  ? 

This  was  too  much,  and,  seeing  the  weary  faces 
about  him,  Lord  Dungory  determined  to  change  the 
subject  of  conversation  : 

'  The  end  of  government  ?'  he  said  ;  '  I  am  afraid 
that  you  would  get  many  different  answers  to  that 
question.     Ask  these  young  ladies  ;  they  will  tell 


46  MUSLIN 

you,  probably,  that  it  is  to  have  des  beaux  arnants  el 
des  joyeuses  amours,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  they  are 
not  right.' 

Mrs.  Barton's  coaxing  laugh  was  heard,  and  then 
reference  was  made  to  the  detachment  of  the  Con- 
naught  Rangers  stationed  at  Galway,  and  the  possi- 
bility of  their  giving  a  dance  was  eagerly  discussed. 
Mr.  Ryan  had  a  word  to  say  anent  the  hunting 
prospect,  and,  when  May  Gould  declared  she  was 
going  to  ride  straight  and  not  miss  a  meet,  she  com- 
pleted the  conquest  of  Mr.  Scully,  and  encouraging 
glances  were  exchanged  between  them  until  Lady 
Sarah  looked  inquiringly  round  the  table — then  she 
pushed  back  her  chair.  All  rose,  and  a  moment 
after,  through  the  twilight  of  the  drawing-room, 
colour  and  nudity  were  scattered  in  picturesque 
confusion. 

Every  mind  was  occupied  by  one  thought — how 
the  pleasure  of  the  dinner-party  had  been  spoiled  by 
that  horrible  Land  League  discussion.  All  wondered 
who  had  introduced  the  subject,  and  the  blame  was 
fixed  upon  Mr.  Adair.  Mrs.  Gould,  in  her  homely 
way,  came  to  the  point  at  once  : 

'  People  say  he  is  so  clever,  but  I  am  sure  I  can't 
see  it.  He  has  spent  a  fortune  in  building  farm- 
yards in  concrete,  and  his  saw-mill,  I  hear,  costs  him 
twenty  pounds  a  month  dead  loss,  and  he  is  always 
writing  letters  to  the  papers.  I  never  can  think 
much  of  a  man  who  writes  to  the  papers.' 

'  A  most  superior  man,'  said  Lady  Sarah,  who, 
notwithstanding  her  thirty-five  years,  had  not  en- 
tirely given  up  hope.     '  He  took  honours  at  Trinity.' 

Then  Mr.  Burke  and  Lord  Kilcarney  were  spoken 


MUSLIN  47 

of,  and  some  new  anecdotes  were  told  of  Mr.  Ryan. 
The  famous  one — how  he  had  asked  a  lady  to  show 
him  her  docket  at  the  Galway  ball,  when  she  told 
him  that  she  was  engaged  for  all  the  dances — excited, 
as  it  never  failed  to  do,  a  good  deal  of  laughter. 
Mrs.  Barton  did  not,  however,  join  in  the  conversa- 
tion. She  knew,  if  she  did,  that  the  Ladies  Cullen 
would  be  as  rude  as  the  absence  of  Milord,  and  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  guest  in  their  house  would  allow 
them  to  be.  Mrs.  Barton's  mind  was  now  occupied 
with  one  thought,  and,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
she  yielded  herself  entirely  to  it.  Although  the 
dinner-party  had  been  spoiled  by  Mr.  Adair's  un- 
controllable desire  to  impart  information,  she  had, 
nevertheless,  noticed  that  Captain  Hibbert  had  been 
very  much  struck  with  Olive's  beauty.  She  was 
aware  that  her  daughter  was  a  beautiful  girl,  but 
whether  men  would  want  to  marry  her  Mrs.  Barton 
did  not  know.  Captain  Hibbert's  conduct  would 
help  her  to  arrive  at  a  decision.  She  certainly 
dreamed  of  a  title  for  Olive.  Lord  Kilcarney  was, 
alas  !  not  to  be  thought  of.  Ah  !  if  Mr.  Burke  were 
only  Lord  Kilcarney !  But  he  was  not.  However, 
Captain  Hibbert  would  be  a  fairly  good  match.  He 
was  of  excellent  family,  had  two  thousand  a  year, 
and  a  place  in  the  country  and  in  England  too.  But 
why  snatch  up  the  very  first  fish  that  came  by  ? 
There  was  no  saying  whom  they  would  meet  at  the 
Castle.  Still,  to  encourage  a  flirtation  could  be  no 
harm.  If  they  met  anything  better,  it  could  be 
broken  off ;  if  they  did  not,  it  would  be  a  very  nice 
match  indeed.  Besides,  there  was  no  denying  that 
Olive  was  a  little  too  naive  in  her  manner.     Captain 


48  MUSLIN 

Hibbert's  society  would  brush  that  off,  and  Olive 
would  go  up  to  the  Castle  with  the  reputation  of 
having  made  a  conquest. 

Such  were  Mrs.  Barton's  thoughts  as  she  sat,  her 
hands  laid  like  china  ornaments  on  her  lap ;  her 
feet  were  tucked  under  the  black-pleated  skirt,  and 
she  sometimes  raised  her  Greuze-like  eyes  and  looked 
at  her  daughter. 

The  girls  were  grouped  around  a  small  table,  on 
which  stood  a  feather-shaded  lamp.  In  clear  voices 
and  clear  laughs  they  were  talking  of  each  other's 
dresses.  May  had  just  stood  up  to  show  off  her 
skirt.  She  was  a  superb  specimen  of  a  fat  girl,  and 
in  a  glow  of  orange  ribbons  and  red  hair  she  com- 
manded admiration. 

'  And  to  think  she  is  going  to  waste  her  time  with 
that  dissipated  young  man,  Mr.  Scully!'  thought 
Mrs.  Barton.  Then  Olive  stood  up.  She  was  all 
rose,  and  when,  laughing,  with  a  delicious  movement 
of  the  arms,  she  hitched  back  her  bustle,  she  lost 
her  original  air,  and  looked  as  might  have  done  the 
Fornarina  when  not  sitting  in  immortality.  It  was 
the  battle  of  blonde  tints  :  Olive  with  primroses  and 
corn,  May  with  a  cadmium  yellow  and  red  gold. 

'  And  now,  Alice,  get  up  and  let's  see  you  !'  she 
cried,  catching  hold  of  her  sister's  arm. 

Still  resisting,  Alice  rose  to  her  feet,  and  May, 
who  was  full  of  good  nature,  made  some  judicious 
observations. 

'  And  how  different  we  all  look  from  what  we  did 
at  the  convent !    Do  you  remember  our  white  frocks  ?' 

Alice's  face  lit  up  with  a  sudden  remembrance, 
and  she  said  : 


MUSLIN  49 

'  But  why,  Lady  Sarah,  haven't  we  seen  Cecilia  ? 
I've  been  thinking  of  her  during  dinner.  1  hope 
she  is  not  ill  ?' 

1  Oh,  dear  me,  no  !  But  poor  Cecilia  does  not  care 
to  come  down  when  there  is  company.' 

'  But  can  I  not  see  her  ?' 

1  Oh,  certainly  !  You  will  find  her  in  her  room. 
But  you  do  not  know  the  way ;  I  will  ring  for  my 
maid,  she  will  show  you.' 

At  this  moment  men's  voices  were  heard  on  the 
staircase.  The  ladies  all  looked  up,  the  light  defining 
the  corner  of  a  forehead,  the  outline  of  a  nose  and 
chin,  bathing  a  neck  in  warm  shadow,  modelling  a 
shoulder  with  grey  tints,  sending  a  thousand  rays 
flashing  through  the  diamonds  on  the  bosom,  touching 
the  finger-rings,  and  lastly  dying  away  amid  the 
folds  of  the  dresses  that  trailed  on  the  soft  carpet. 
Mr.  Ryan,  walking  with  his  habitual  roll  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  entered.  His  tie  was  under 
his  left  ear.  Mr.  Lynch,  haunted  by  the  idea  that 
he  had  not  made  himself  agreeable  to  Alice  during 
dinner,  sat  down  beside  her.  Mr.  Scully  made  a 
rush  for  May.  Tall,  handsome  Captain  Hibbert, 
with  his  air  of  conventional  high  style,  quitted  Lord 
Dungory,  and  asked  Olive  what  they  had  been  say- 
ing since  they  left  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Burke 
tried  to  join  in  the  conversation,  but  Mr.  Ryan, 
thinking  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  let  the  occasion 
slip  of  speaking  of  a  certain  '  bay  harse  who'd  jump 
anythin','  took  him  confidentially  by  the  sleeve. 

'  Now,  look  here,  will  yer,'  he  began.  The  rest  of 
his  remarks  were  lost  in  the  hum  of  the  conversation, 
and  by  well-bred  transitions  observations  were  made 

D 


50  MUSLIN 

on  the  dancing  and  hunting  prospects  of  the  season. 
Mr.  Adair  took  no  interest  in  such  subjects,  and  to 
everyone's  relief  he  remained  silent.  May  and  Fred 
Scully  had  withdrawn  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where 
they  could  talk  more  at  their  ease ;  Captain  Hibbert 
was  conscious  of  nothing  but  Olive  and  her  laughter, 
which  rippled  and  tinkled  through  an  odour  of  coffee. 

Little  by  little  she  was  gaining  the  attention  of 
the  room.  Mr.  Adair  ceased  to  listen  to  Lord  Dun- 
gory,  who  was  explaining  why  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
was  a  greater  painter  than  Titian.  Mr.  Lynch  left 
off  talking  to  Alice ;  the  little  blonde  honourable 
looked  sillier  and  sillier  as  his  admiration  grew  upon 
him.  Mrs.  Barton,  to  hide  her  emotion,  engaged  in 
an  ardent  discussion  concerning  the  rearing  of  calves 
with  Mrs.  Gould.  Lady  Sarah  bit  her  lip,  and,  un- 
able to  endure  her  enemy's  triumph  any  longer,  she 
said  in  her  most  mellifluous  tone  : 

'  Won't  you  sing  us  something,  Captain  Hibbert  ?' 

'  Well,  really,  Lady  Sarah,  I  should  be  very  glad, 
but  I  don't  think,  you  know — I  am  not  sure  I  could 
manage  without  my  music' 

e  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  accompany  you.  I  think 
I  know  In  the  Gloaming,  and  I  have  heard  you  sing 
that.' 

Olive,  at  a  sign  from  her  mother,  entreated,  and 
when  the  gallant  Captain  rolled  from  under  the 
brown-gold  moustache  the  phrase,  '  Oh,  my  darling !' 
all  strove  not  to  look  at  her,  and  when  he  dropped 
his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  sang  of  his  aching  heart, 
a  feeling  prevailed  that  all  were  guilty  of  an  indis- 
cretion in  listening  to  such  an  intimate  avowal. 
Then  he  sang  two  songs  more,  equally  filled  with 


MUSLIN  51 

reference  to  tears,  blighted  love,  and  the  possibility 
of  meeting  in  other  years,  and  Olive  hung  down 
her  head,  overcome  by  the  fine  sentiments  which 
she  felt  were  addressed  to  her. 

Meanwhile  Alice  became  aware  that  her  sister 
was  the  object  of  all  eyes  and  thoughts  ;  that  she 
was  gaining  the  triumph  that  men  are  agreed  may 
be  desired  by  women  without  impropriety.  Alice 
was  a  healthy-bodied  girl ;  her  blood  flowed  as  warm 
as  in  her  sister.  The  men  about  her  did  not  cor- 
respond with  her  ideal,  but  this  scarcely  rendered 
the  fact  that  they  neglected  her  less  bitter.  She 
asked  Lady  Sarah  again  if  she  might  go  upstairs 
and  see  Cecilia. 

She  found  the  little  cripple  leaning  over  the 
banisters  listening  to  the  sound  of  voices. 

I  Oh,  my  dear !  Is  it  you  ?  I  expected  you  to 
come  to  see  me  when  you  left  the  gentlemen  in  the 
dining-room.' 

I I  couldn't  come  before,  dear,'  said  Alice,  kissing 
her  friend.  '  Just  as  I  was  asking  Lady  Sarah  the 
way  to  your  room,  we  heard  them  coming.' 

'  And  how  did  you  like  the  party  ?  Which  of  the 
men  did  you  think  the  nicest  ?' 

'  I  did  not  care  for  any  of  them ;  and  oh,  that 
odious  Mr.  Lynch  !' 

Cecilia's  eyes  flashed  with  a  momentary  gleam  of 
satisfaction,  and  spoke  of  a  little  excursion — a  walk 
to  the  Brennans,  who  lived  two  miles  distant — that 
she  had  been  planning  for  the  last  few  days. 


52  MUSLIN 


VII 


The  girls  had  given  each  other  rendezvous  at  the 
gate  of  Dungory  Castle.  Lover  was  never  more 
anxious  to  meet  mistress  than  this  little  deformed 
girl  to  see  her  friend ;  and  Alice  could  see  her 
walking  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  gravel-sweep  in 
front  of  the  massive  grey-stone  lodge. 

'  She  will  see  me  next  time  she  turns/  thought 
Alice  ;  and  immediately  after  Cecilia  uttered  a  joyful 
cry  and  ran  forward. 

'  Oh,  so  it  is  you,  Alice  !  I  am  so  glad  !  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  disappoint  me.' 

'  And  why,  dear,  did  you  think  I  was  going  to 
disappoint  you  ?'  said  Alice,  stooping  to  kiss  the 
wan,  wistful  face. 

'  I  don't  know — I  can't  say — but  I  fancied  some- 
thing would  happen ;'  and  the  great  brown  eyes 
began  to  melt  with  tears  of  delight.  1 1  had,  you 
know,  set  my  heart  on  this  walk  with  you.' 

'  I  am  sure  the  pleasure  is  as  much  mine  as  yours ; 
and  now,  whither  lies  our  way  ?' 

'  Through  the  deer-park,  through  the  oakwood, 
across  the  fields  into  the  highroad,  and  then  you 
are  at  the  gate.' 

1  Won't  that  be  too  far  for  you  ?' 

'  Oh,  not  at  all !  It  is  not  more  than  a  mile  and  a 
half ;  but  for  you,  you  had  to  come  another  mile  and 
a  half.  It  is  fully  that  from  here  to  Brookfield. 
But  tell  me,  dear,'  said  Cecilia,  clinging  to  her 
friend's  arm,  '  why  have  you  not  been  over  to  see 
me  before  ?     It  is  not  kind  of  you ;  we  have  been 


MUSLIN  53 

home  from  school  now  over  a  fortnight,  and,  except 
on  the  night  of  the  dinner-party,  I  haven't  seen  you 
once.' 

'  I  was  coming  over  to  see  you  last  week,  dear ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  mamma  prevented  me.  I 
cannot  think  wh}',  but  somehow  she  does  not  seem 
to  care  that  I  should  go  to  Dungory  Castle.  But  for 
the  matter  of  that,  why  did  you  not  come  to  see 
me  ?     I've  been  expecting  you  every  day.' 

'  I  couldn't  come  either.  My  sisters  advised  me — 
I  mean,  insisted  on  my  stopping  at  home.' 

'  And  why  ?' 

'  I  really  can't  say,'  replied  Cecilia. 

And  now  Alice  knew  that  the  Ladies  Cullen  hated 
Mrs.  Barton  for  her  intimacy  with  Lord  Dungory. 
She  longed  to  talk  the  matter  out,  but  dared  not ; 
while  Cecilia  regretted  she  had  spoken ;  for,  with 
the  quickness  of  the  deformed,  she  knew  that  Alice 
had  divined  the  truth  of  the  family  feud. 

The  sun  fell  like  lead  upon  the  short  grass  of  the 
deer-park  and  the  frizzled  heads  of  the  hawthorns. 
On  the  right  the  green  masses  of  the  oakwood  shut 
in  the  view,  and  the  stately  red  deer,  lolling  their 
high  necks,  marched  away  through  the  hillocks,  as 
if  offended  at  their  solitude  being  disturbed.  One 
poor  crippled  hind  walked  with  a  wretched  sidling 
movement,  and  Alice  hoped  Cecilia  would  not  notice 
it,  lest  it  should  remind  her  of  her  own  misfortune. 

f  I  am  sure,'  she  said,  '  we  never  knew  finer 
weather  than  this  in  England.  I  don't  think  there 
could  be  finer  weather,  and  still  they  say  the  tenants 
are  worse  off  than  ever ;  that  no  rent  at  all,  at  least 
nothing  above  Griffith's  valuation,  will  be  paid.' 


54-  MUSLIN 

'  Do  they  speak  much  of  Griffith's  valuation  at 
Dungory  Castle  ?' 

'  Oh  !  they  never  cease,  and — and — I  don't  know 
whether  I  ought  to  say,  hut  it  won't  matter  with 
you,  I  suppose  ? — mind,  you  must  not  breathe  a 
word  of  this  at  Brookfield — the  fact  is  my  sisters' 
school — you  know  they  have  a  school,  and  go  in  for 
trying  to  convert  the  people  —  well,  this  has  got 
papa  into  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  The  Bishop  has 
sent  down  another  priest — I  think  they  call  it  a 
mission — and  we  are  going  to  be  preached  against, 
and  papa  received  a  threatening  letter  this  morning. 
He  is  going,  I  believe,  to  apply  for  police.' 

'  And  is  this  on  account  of  the  proselytizing  ?' 

'  Oh  !  no,  not  entirely ;  he  has  refused  to  give  his 
tenants  Griffith's  valuation ;  but  it  makes  one  very 
unpopular  to  be  denounced  by  the  priest.  I  assure 
you,  papa  is  very  angry.  He  told  Sarah  and  Jane 
this  morning  at  breakfast  that  he'd  have  no  more  of 
it ;  that  they  had  no  right  to  go  into  the  poor 
people's  houses  and  pull  the  children  from  under 
the  beds,  and  ask  why  they  were  not  at  school ;  that 
he  didn't  care  of  what  religion  they  were  as  long  as 
they  paid  the  rent ;  and  that  he  wasn't  going  to 
have  his  life  endangered  for  such  nonsense.  There 
was  an  awful  row  at  home  this  morning.  For  my 
own  part,  I  must  say  I  sympathize  with  papa. 
Besides  the  school,  Sarah  has,  you  know,  a  shop, 
where  she  sells  bacon,  sugar,  and  tea  at  cost  price, 
and  it  is  well-known  that  those  who  send  their 
children  to  the  school  will  never  be  asked  to  pay  their 
bills.  She  wanted  me  to  come  and  help  to  weigh 
out  the  meal,  Jane  being  confined  to  her  room  with 


MUSLIN  55 

a  sick  headache,  but  I  got  out  of  it.  I  would  not,  if 
I  could,  convert  those  poor  people.  You  know,  I 
often  fancy — I  mean  fear — I  often  sympathize  too 
much  with  your  creed.  It  was  only  at  service  last 
Sunday  I  was  thinking  of  it ;  our  religion  seems  so 
cold,  so  cheerless  compared  to  yours.  You  remember 
the  convent-church  at  St.  Leonard's — the  incense,  the 
vestments,  the  white-veiled  congregation — oh,  how 
beautiful  it  was  ;  we  shall  never  be  so  happy  again  !' 

'  Yes,  indeed ;  and  how  cross  we  used  to  think 
those  dear  nuns.  You  remember  Sister  Mary,  how 
she  used  to  lecture  Violet  for  getting  up  to  look  out 
of  the  windows.  What  used  she  to  say  ?  "  Do  you 
want,  miss,  to  be  taken  for  a  housemaid  or  scullery- 
maid,  staring  at  people  in  that  way  as  they  pass?"  ' 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  that's  exactly  how  she  used  to  speak,' 
exclaimed  Cecilia,  laughing.  And,  as  the  girls 
advanced  through  the  oakwood,  they  helped  each 
other  through  the  briers  and  over  the  trunks  of 
fallen  trees,  talking,  the  while,  of  their  past  life, 
which  now  seemed  to  them  but  one  long,  sweet  joy. 
A  reference  to  how  May  Gould  used  to  gallop  the 
pony  round  and  round  the  field  at  the  back  of  the 
convent  was  interrupted  by  the  terrifying  sound  of 
a  cock-pheasant  getting  up  from  some  bracken  under 
their  very  feet ;  and,  amid  the  scurrying  of  rabbits 
in  couples  and  half-dozens,  modest  allusion  was  made 
to  the  girls  who  had  been  expelled  in  '75.  Absorbed 
in  the  sweetness  of  the  past,  the  girls  mused,  until 
they  emerged  from  the  shade  of  the  woods  into  the 
glare  and  dust  of  the  highroad.  Then  came  a  view 
of  rocky  country,  with  harvesters  working  in  tiny 
fields,  and  then  the  great  blue  background  of  the 


56  MUSLIN 

Clare  Mountains  was  suddenly  unfolded.  A  line 
and  a  bunch  of  trees  indicated  the  Brennan  domain. 
The  gate-lodge  was  in  ruins,  and  the  weed-grown 
avenue  was  covered  with  cow-dung. 

1  Which  of  the  girls  do  you  like  best  ?'  said  Alice, 
who  wished  to  cease  thinking  of  the  poverty  in 
which  the  spinsters  lived. 

'  Emily,  I  think ;  she  doesn't  say  much,  but  she  is 
more  sensible  than  the  other  two.  Gladys  wearies 
me  with  her  absurd  affectations  ;  Zoe  is  well  enough, 
but  what  names !' 

'  Yes,  Emily  has  certainly  the  best  of  the  names,' 
Alice  replied,  laughing. 

'  Are  the  Miss  Brennans  at  home  ?'  said  Cecilia, 
when  the  maid  opened  the  hall-door. 

'  Yes,  miss — I  mean  your  ladyship — will  you  walk 
in?' 

'  You'll  see,  they'll  keep  us  waiting  a  good  half- 
hour  while  they  put  on  their  best  frocks,'  said 
Cecilia,  as  she  sat  down  in  a  faded  arm-chair  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  A  piano  was  rolled  close 
against  the  wall,  the  two  rosewood  cabinets  were 
symmetrically  placed  on  either  side  of  the  farther 
window ;  from  brass  rods  the  thick,  green  curtains 
hung  in  stiff  folds,  and,  since  the  hanging  of  some 
water-colours,  done  by  Zoe  before  leaving  school,  no 
alterations,  except  the  removal  of  the  linen  covers 
from  the  furniture  when  visitors  were  expected,  had 
been  made  in  the  arrangement  of  the  room. 

The  Brennan  family  consisted  of  three  girls — 
Gladys,  Zoe,  and  Emily.  Thirty-three,  thirty-one, 
and  thirty  were  their  respective  ages.  Their  father 
and  mother,  dead  some  ten  or  a  dozen  years,  had 


MUSLIN  57 

left  them  joint  proprietors  of  a  small  property  that 
gossip  had  magnified  to  three  thousand.  They  were 
known  as  the  heiresses  of  Kinvarra  ;  snub  noses 
and  blue  eyes  betrayed  their  Celtic  blood  ;  and 
every  year  they  went  to  spend  a  month  at  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel  in  Dublin,  returning  home  with 
quite  a  little  trousseau.  Gladys  and  Zoe  always 
dressed  alike,  from  the  bow  round  the  neck  to  the 
bow  on  the  little  shoe  that  they  so  artlessly  with- 
drew when  in  the  presence  of  gentlemen.  Gladys' 
formula  for  receiving  visitors  never  varied  : 

'  Oh,  how  do  you  do — it  is  really  too  kind  of  you 
to  give  yourself  all  this  trouble  to  come  and  see  us.' 

Immediately  after  Zoe  put  out  her  hand.  Her 
manner  was  more  jocose  : 

'  How  d'ye  do  ?  We  are,  I  am  sure,  delighted  to 
see  you.  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  I  know  you 
will.' 

Emily,  being  considered  too  shy  and  silent,  did 
not  often  come  down  to  receive  company.  On  her 
devolved  the  entire  management  of  the  house  and 
servants ;  the  two  elder  sisters  killed  time  in  the 
way  they  thought  would  give  least  offence  to  their 
neighbours. 

Being  all  St.  Leonard's  girls,  the  conversation 
immediately  turned  on  convent-life.  '  Was  Madam 
this  there  ?  Had  Madam  that  left  ?'  Garden 
chapel,  school,  hall,  dormitory,  refectory  were 
visited ;  every  nun  was  passed  in  review,  and,  in 
the  lightness  and  gaiety  of  the  memories  invoked, 
even  these  maiden  ladies  flushed  and  looked  fresh 
again,  the  conversation  came  to  a  pause,  and  then 
allusion  was   made  to  the    disturbed  state   of  the 


58  MUSLIN 

country,  and  to  a  gentleman  who,  it  was  reported, 
was  going  to  be  married.  But,  as  Alice  did  not 
know  the  person  whose  antecedents  were  being 
called  into  question,  she  took  an  early  opportunity 
of  asking  Gladys  if  she  cared  for  riding  ?  '  No,  they 
never  went  to  ride  now  :  they  used  to,  but  they 
came  in  so  fatigued  that  they  could  not  talk  to 
Emily ;  so  they  had  given  up  riding.'  Did  they 
care  for  driving  ?  '  Yes,  pretty  well  ;  but  there  was 
no  place  to  drive  to  except  into  Gort,  and  as  people 
had  been  unjust  enough  to  say  that  they  were 
always  to  be  seen  in  Gort,  they  had  given  up  driv- 
ing— unless,  of  course,  they  went  to  call  on  friends.' 
Then  tea  was  brought  in ;  and,  apropos  of  a  casual 
reference  to  conventual  buttered  toast,  the  five  girls 
talked,  until  nearly  six  o'clock,  of  their  girlhood — of 
things  that  would  never  have  any  further  influence 
in  their  lives,  of  happiness  they  would  never  experi- 
ence again.  At  last  Alice  and  Cecilia  pleaded  that 
they  must  be  going  home. 

As  they  walked  across  the  fields  the  girls  only 
spoke  occasionally.  Alice  strove  to  see  clear,  but 
her  thoughts  were  clouded,  scattered,  diffused. 
Force  herself  as  she  would,  still  no  conclusion 
seemed  possible  ;  all  was  vague  and  contradictory. 
She  had  talked  to  these  Brennans,  seen  how  they 
lived,  could  guess  what  their  past  was,  what  their 
future  must  be.  In  that  neat  little  house  their 
uneventful  life  dribbled  away  in  maiden  idleness ; 
neither  hope  nor  despair  broke  the  triviality  of 
their  days — and  yet,  was  it  their  fault  ?  No  ;  for 
what  could  they  do  if  no  one  would  marry  them  ? — 
a   woman    could    do    nothing    without   a    husband. 


MUSLIN  59 

There  is  a  reason  for  the  existence  of  a  pack-horse, 
but  none  for  that  of  an  unmarried  woman.  She  can 
achieve  nothing — she  has  no  duty  but,  by  blotting 
herself  out,  to  shield  herself  from  the  attacks  of 
ever-slandering  friends.  Alice  had  looked  forward 
to  a  husband  and  a  home  as  the  certain  accomplish- 
ment of  years ;  now  she  saw  that  a  woman,  inde- 
pendently of  her  own  will,  may  remain  single. 

'  I  wonder,'  she  said,  forgetting  for  the  moment 
she  was  speaking  to  Cecilia,  '  I  wonder  none  of  those 
Brennans  married  ;  you  can't  call  them  ugly  girls, 
and  they  have  some  money.  How  dreadfully  lonely 
they  must  be  living  there  by  themselves  !' 

1 1  think  they  are  far  happier  as  they  are/  said 
Cecilia,  and  her  brown  eyes  set  in  liquid  blue  looked 
strangely  at  Alice  as  she  helped  her  over  the  low 
wall.  The  girls  walked  in  silence  through  the  still- 
ness of  the  silver  firs,  their  thoughts  as  sharp  as  the 
needles  that  scratched  the  pale  sky. 

f  It  may  seem  odd  of  me  to  say  so — of  course  I 
would  not  say  this  to  anyone  but  you — but  I  assure 
you,  even  if  I  were  as  tall  as  you  are,  dear,  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  marry.  I  never  took  the 
slightest  pleasure  in  any  man's  conversation.  Do 
you  ?  But  I  know  you  do,'  she  said,  breaking  off 
suddenly — '  I  know  you  like  men  ;  I  feel  you  do. 
Don't  you  ?' 

'  Well,  since  you  put  it  so  plainly,  I  confess  I 
should  like  to  know  nice  men.  I  don't  care  for 
those  I  have  met  hitherto,  particularly  those  I  saw 
at  dinner  the  other  night ;  but  I  believe  there  are 
nice  men  in  the  world.' 

(  Oh  !  no  there  aren't.' 


60  MUSLIN 

1  Well,  Cecilia,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  speak  so 
positively  as  that ;  you  have  seen,  as  yet,  very  little 
of  the  world.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  but  I  know  it ;  I  can  guess  it  all,  I 
know  it  instinctively,  and  I  hate  it.' 

'  There  is  nothing  else,  so  we  must  make  the  best 
of  it.' 

'  But  there  is  something  else — there  is  God,  and 
the  love  of  beautiful  things.  I  spent  all  day  yester- 
day playing  Bach's  Passion  Music,  and  the  hours 
passed  like  a  dream  until  my  sisters  came  in  from 
walking  and  began  to  talk  about  marriage  and  men. 
It  made  me  feel  sick — it  was  horrible  ;  and  it  is  such 
things  that  make  me  hate  life — and  I  do  hate  it ;  it 
is  the  way  we  are  brought  back  to  eai'th,  and  forced 
to  realize  how  vile  and  degraded  we  are.  Society 
seems  to  me  no  better  than  a  pigsty ;  but  in  the 
beautiful  convent — that  we  shall,  alas  !  never  see 
again — it  was  not  so.  There,  at  least,  life  was  pure 
— yes,  and  beautiful.  Do  you  not  remember  that 
beautiful  white  church  with  all  its  white  pillars  and 
statues,  and  the  dark-robed  nuns,  and  the  white- 
veiled  girls,  their  veils  falling  from  their  bent  heads  ? 
They  often  seemed  to  me  like  angels.  I  am  sure 
that  Heaven  must  be  very  much  like  that — pure, 
desireless,  contemplative." 

Amazed,  Alice  looked  at  her  friend  questioningly, 
for  she  had  never  heard  her  speak  like  this  before. 
But  Cecilia  did  not  see  her  ;  the  prominent  eyes  of 
the  mystic  were  veiled  with  strange  glamour,  and, 
with  divine  gourmandise,  she  savoured  the  ineffable 
sweetness  of  the  vision,  and,  after  a  long  silence, 
she  said  : 


MUSLIN  61 

( I  often  wonder,  Alice,  how  you  can  think  as  you 
do  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  no  one  suspects  you  are 
an  unbeliever  ;  you're  so  good  in  all  except  that 
one  point.' 

( But  surely,  dear,  it  isn't  a  merit  to  believe ;  it 
is  hardly  a  thing  that  we  can  call  into  existence.' 

'  You  should  pray  for  faith.' 

'  I  don't  see  how  I  can  pray  if  I  haven't  faith.' 

1  You're  too  clever ;  but  I  would  ask  you,  Alice — 
you  never  told  me — did  you  never  believe  in  God, 
I  mean  when  you  were  a  little  child  ?' 

'  I  suppose  I  must  have,  but,  as  well  as  I  can 
remember,  it  was  only  in  a  very  half-hearted  way. 
I  could  never  quite  bring  myself  to  credit  that  there 
was  a  Being  far  away,  sitting  behind  a  cloud,  who 
kept  his  eye  on  all  the  different  worlds,  and  looked 
after  them  just  as  a  stationmaster  looks  after  the 
arrival  and  departure  of  trains  from  some  great 
terminus.' 

'  Alice  !  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  Aren't  you  afraid 
that  something  awful  might  happen  to  you  for  talk- 
ing of  the  Creator  of  all  things  in  that  way  ?' 

'  Why  should  I  be  afraid,  and  why  should  that 
Being,  if  he  exists,  be  angry  with  me  for  my  sin- 
cerity ?  If  he  be  all-powerful,  it  rests  with  himself 
to  make  me  believe.' 

They  had  now  accomplished  the  greater  part  of 
their  journey,  and,  a  little  tired,  had  sat  down  to 
rest  on  a  portion  of  a  tree  left  by  the  woodcutters. 
Gold  rays  slanted  through  the  glades,  enveloping 
and  rounding  off  the  tall  smooth  trunks  that  rose 
branchless  to  a  height  of  thirty,  even  forty,  feet ; 
and  the  pink  clouds,  seen  through  the  arching  dome 


62  MUSLIN 

of  green,  were  vague  as  the  picture  on  some  dim 
cathedral-roof. 

'  In  places  like  these,  I  wonder  you  don't  feel 
God's  presence.' 

'  On  the  contrary,  the  charm  of  nature  is  broken 
when  we  introduce  a  ruling  official.' 

'Alice  !  how  can  you — you  who  are  so  good — 
speak  in  that  way  ?'  At  that  moment  a  dead  leaf 
rustled  through  the  silence — '  And  do  you  think  that 
we  shall  die  like  that  leaf  ?  That,  like  it,  we  shall 
become  a  part  of  the  earth  and  be  forgotton  as 
utterly  ?' 

1 1  am  afraid  I  do.  That  dead,  fluttering  thing 
was  once  a  bud  ;  it  lived  the  summer-life  of  a  leaf ; 
now  it  will  decay  through  the  winter,  and  perhaps 
the  next,  until  it  finally  becomes  part  of  the  earth. 
Everything  in  nature  I  see  pursuing  the  same  course ; 
why  should  I  imagine  myself  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule  ?' 

1  What,  then,  is  the  meaning  of  life  ?' 

'  That  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  learn  from  listen- 
ing to  the  rustling  of  leaves.' 

The  short  sharp  cry  of  a  bird  broke  the  mild  calm 
of  the  woods,  and  Alice  said  : 

'  Perhaps  the  same  thought  that  troubles  us  is 
troubling  that  bird.' 

The  girls  walked  on  in  silence,  and  when  they 
came  to  the  end  of  the  path  and  their  parting  was 
inevitable,  there  was  something  of  the  passion  of 
the  lover  in  Cecilia's  voice  :  '  Promise  me  you  will 
come  to  see  me  soon  again.  You'll  not  leave  me  so 
long  ;  you  will  write ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  live  if 
I  don't  hear  from  you.' 


MUSLIN  63 

The  sound  of  hooves  was  heard,  and  a  pair  of 
cream-coloured  ponies,  with  a  florid  woman  driving 
determinedly,  came  sweeping  round  the  corner. 

'  What  a  strange  person  !'  said  Alice,  watching  the 
blue  veil  and  the  brightly  dyed  hair. 

'  Don't  you  know  who  she  is  ?'  said  Cecilia  ;  '  that 
is  your  neighbour,  Mrs.  Lawler.' 

'  Oh  !  is  it  really  ?  I  have  been  so  long  at  school 
that  I  know  nobody — I  have  been  anxious  to  see 
her.  Why,  I  wonder,  do  people  speak  of  her  so 
mysteriously  ?' 

'You  must  have  heard  that  she  isn't  visited  ?' 

'Well,  yes  ;  but  I  didn't  quite  understand.  Your 
father  was  saying  something  the  other  day  about 
Mr.  Lawler's  shooting-parties ;  then  mamma  looked 
at  him ;  he  laughed  and  spoke  of  "  les  colombes  dc 
Cyt fibre."  I  intended  to  ask  mamma  what  he  meant, 
but  somehow  I  forgot.' 

'  She  was  one  of  those  women  that  walk  about  the 
streets  by  night.' 

'  Oh  !  really !'  said  Alice  ;  and  the  conversation 
came  to  a  sudden  pause.  They  had  never  spoken 
upon  such  a  subject  before,  and  the  presence  of  the 
deformed  girl  rendered  it  a  doubly  painful  one.  In 
her  embarrassment,  Alice  said  : 

'  Then  I  wonder  Mr.  Lawler  married  her.  Was  it 
his  fault  that ' 

'  Oh  !  I  don't  think  so,'  Cecilia  replied,  scornfully  : 
*  but  what  does  it  matter  ? — she  was  quite  good 
enough  for  him.' 

At  every  moment  a  new  Cecilia  was  revealing 
herself,  the  existence  of  whom  Alice  had  not  even 
suspected  in  the  old  ;  and  as  she  hurried  home  she 


64  MUSLIN 

wondered  if  the  minds  of  the  other  girls  were  the 
same  as  they  were  at  school.  Olive  ?  She  could 
see  but  little  change  in  her  sister  ;  and  May  she 
had  scarcely  spoken  to  since  they  left  school  ; 
Violet  she  hadn't  met  since  they  parted  at  Athenry 

for    their    different   homes.     But   Cecilia She 

entered  the  house  still  thinking  of  her,  and  heard 
Olive  telling  her  mother  that  Captain  Hibbert  had 
admired  her  new  hat. 

f  He  told  me  that  I'd  be  the  handsomest  girl  at 
the  Drawing-Room.' 

'  And  what  did  you  say,  dear  ?' 
'  I  asked  him  how  he  knew.     Was  that  right  ?' 
*  Quite  right ;  and  what  did  he  say  then  ?' 
'  He  said,  because  he  had  never  seen  anybody  so 
handsome,  and  as  he  had  seen  everybody  in  London, 
he   supposed — I   forget  the   exact  words,  but  they 
were  very  nice  ;  I  am  sure  he  admired  my  new  hat ; 
but  you — you  haven't  told  me  how  you  liked  it.     Do 
you  think  I  should  wear  it  down  on  my  eyes,  or  a 
bit  back  ?' 

'  I  think  it  very  becoming  as  it  is  ;  but  tell  me 
more  about  Captain  Hibbert.' 

'  He  told  me  he  was  coming  to  meet  us  at  Mass. 
You  know  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic  ?' 

'  I  know  he  is,  dear,  and  am  very  glad.' 
'  If  he  weren't,  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  meet  us  at 
Mass.' 

VIII 

According  to  old-established  custom,  on  the  arrival 
of  his  family  Arthur  had  turned  his  nudities  to  the 
wall,  and  now  sitting,  one  leg  tucked  under  him,  on 


MUSLIN  65 

the  sofa,  throwing  back  from  time  to  time  his  long 
blond  locks,  he  hummed  an  Italian  air. 

'  How  tired  you  look,  Alice  dear  !  Will  you  have 
a  cup  of  tea  ?  It  will  freshen  you  up ;  you  have 
been  walking  yourself  to  death.' 

c  Thanks,  mamma,  I  will  have  a  cup  of  tea  ;  Cecilia 
and  I  went  to  see  the  Brennans.' 

( And  are  any  of  them  going  to  be  married  yet  ?' 
said  Olive. 

•  I  really  don't  know  ;  I  didn't  ask  them.' 

'  Well,  they  ought  to  be  doing  something  with 
themselves  ;  they  have  been  trying  it  on  long  enough. 
They  have  been  going  up  to  the  Shelbourne  for  the 
last  ten  years.  Did  they  show  you  the  dresses  they 
brought  down  this  season  ?  They  haven't  worn 
them  yet — they  keep  them  wrapped  up  in  silver 
paper.' 

'  And  how  did  you  hear  all  that  ?'  she  asked. 

'  Oh,  one  hears  everything  !  I  don't  live  with  my 
nose  buried  in  a  book  like  you.  That  was  all  very 
well  in  the  convent.' 

'  But  what  have  I  done  that  you  should  speak  to 
me  in  that  way  ?' 

'  Now,  Alice  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Barton  coaxingly, 
'don't  get  angry.    I  assure  you  Olive  means  nothing.' 

1  No,  indeed,  I  didn't !'  Olive  exclaimed,  and  she 
forced  her  sister  back  into  the  chair. 

Arthur's  attention  had  been  too  deeply  absorbed 
in  the  serenade  in  Don  Pasquale  to  give  heed  to  the 
feminine  bickering  with  which  his  studio  was  ring- 
ing, until  he  was  startled  suddenly  from  his  musical 
dreaming  by  an  angry  exclamation  from  his  wife. 
The  picture  of  the  bathers,  which  Alice  had  seen 

E 


66  MUSLIN 

begun,  had  been  only  partially  turned  to  the  wall, 
and,  after  examining  it  for  a  few  moments,  Mrs. 
Barton  got  up  and  turned  the  picture  round.  The  two 
naked  creatures  who  were  taking  a  dip  in  the  quiet, 
sunlit  pool  were  Olive  and  Mrs.  Barton ;  and  so 
grotesque  were  the  likenesses  that  Alice  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing. 

'  This  is  monstrous  !  This  is  disgraceful,  sir !  How 
often  have  I  forbidden  you  to  paint  my  face  on  any 
of  your  shameless  pictures  ?  And  your  daughter,  too 
— and  just  as  she  is  coming  out !  Do  you  want  to  ruin 
us  ?    I  should  like  to  know  what  anyone  would  think 

if '   And,  unable  to  complete  her  sentence,  either 

mentally  or  aloud,  Mrs.  Barton  wheeled  the  easel,  on 
which  a  large  picture  stood,  into  the  full  light  of 
the  window. 

If  Arthur  had  wounded  the  susceptibilities  of  his 
family  before,  he  had  outraged  them  now.  The 
great  woman,  who  had  gathered  to  her  bosom  one 
of  the  doves  her  naked  son,  Cupid,  had  shot  out  of 
the  trees  with  his  bow  and  arrow,  was  Olive.  The 
white  face  and  its  high  nose,  beautiful  as  a  head  by 
Canova  is  beautiful  ;  the  corn-like  tresses,  piled  on 
the  top  of  the  absurdly  small  head,  were,  beyond 
mistaking,  Olive.  Mrs.  Barton  stammered  for  words  ; 
Olive  burst  into  tears. 

'  Oh,  papa  !  how  could  you  disgrace  me  in  that 
way  ?  Oh,  I  am  disgraced  !  There's  no  use  in  my 
going  to  the  Drawing- Room  now.' 

1  My  dear,  my  dear,  I  assure  you  I  can  change  it 
with  a  flick  of  the  brush.  Admiration  carried  away 
by  idea.     I  promise  you  I'll  change  it.' 

'  Come  away,  Olive — come  away  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton, 


MUSLIN  6? 

casting  a  look  of  burning  indignation  at  her  husband. 
1  If  you  cry  like  that,  Olive,  you  won't  be  fit  to  be 
looked  at,  and  Captain  Hibbert  is  coming  here  to- 
night.' 

When  they  had  left  the  room  Arthur  looked  in- 
quiringly at  Alice. 

*  This  is  very  disagreeable,'  he  said ;  '  I  really 
didn't  think  the  likeness  was  so  marked  as  all  that ; 
I  assure  you  I  didn't.  I  must  do  something  to  alter 
it — I  might  change  the  colour  of  the  hair  ;  but  no, 
I  can't  do  that,  the  entire  scheme  of  colour  depends 
upon  that.  It  is  a  great  pity,  for  it  is  one  of  my 
best  things ;  the  features  I  might  alter,  and  yet  it  is 
very  hard  to  do  so,  without  losing  the  character.  I 
wonder  if  I  were  to  make  the  nose  straighter. 
Alice,  dear,  would  you  mind  turning  your  head  this 
way?' 

'  Oh  !  no,  no,  no,  papa  dear  !  You  aren't  going  to 
put  my  face  upon  it !'  And  she  ran  from  the  room 
smothered  with  laughter. 

When  this  little  quarrel  was  over  and  done,  and 
Olive  had  ceased  to  consider  herself  a  disgraced  girl, 
the  allusion  that  had  been  made  to  Mass  as  a  means 
of  meeting  Captain  Hibbert  remained  like  a  sting  in 
Alice's  memory.  It  surprised  her  at  all  sorts  of  odd 
moments,  and  often  forced  her,  under  many  different 
impulses  of  mind,  to  reconsider  the  religious  problem 
more  passionately  and  intensely  than  she  had  ever 
done  before.  She  asked  herself  if  she  had  ever 
believed  ?  Perhaps  in  very  early  youth,  in  a  sort  of 
vague,  half-hearted  way,  she  had  taken  for  granted 
the  usual  traditional  ideas  of  heaven  and  hell,  but 
even  then,  she  remembered,  she  used  to  wonder  how 


68  MUSLIN 

it  was  that  time  was  found  for  everything  else  but 
God.  If  He  existed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  monks 
and  nuns,  or  puritans  of  the  sternest  type,  were 
alone  in  the  right.  And  yet  she  couldn't  quite  feel 
that  they  were  right.  She  had  always  been  in- 
tensely conscious  of  the  grotesque  contrast  between 
a  creed  like  that  of  the  Christian,  and  having 
dancing  and  French  lessons,  and  going  to  garden- 
parties — yes,  and  making  wreaths  and  decorations 
for  churches  at  Christmas-time.  If  one  only  believed, 
and  had  but  a  shilling,  surely  the  only  logical  way  of 
spending  it  was  to  give  it  to  the  poor,  or  a  missionary 
— and  yet  nobody  seemed  to  think  so.  Priests  and 
bishops  did  not  do  so,  she  herself  did  not  want 
to  do  so  ;  still,  so  long  as  Alice  believed,  she  was 
unable  to  get  rid  of  the  idea.  Teachers  might  say 
what  they  pleased,  but  the  creed  they  taught  spoke 
for  itself,  and  prescribed  an  impossible  ideal — an  un- 
satisfactory ideal  which  aspired  to  no  more  than 
saving  oneself  after  all. 

Lies  and  all  kinds  of  subterfuge  were  strictly 
against  her  character.  But  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  do  or  say  anything  when  by  so  doing  she  knew 
she  might  cause  suffering  or  give  pain  to  anyone, 
even  an  enemy ;  and  this  defect  in  her  character 
forced  her  to  live  up  to  what  she  deemed  a  lie.  She 
had  longed  to  tell  the  truth  and  thereby  be  saved 
the  mummery  of  attending  at  Mass ;  but  when  she 
realized  the  consternation,  the  agony  of  mind,  it 
would  cause  the  nuns  she  loved,  she  held  back  the 
word.  But  since  she  had  left  the  convent  she  had 
begun  to  feel  that  her  life  must  correspond  to  her 
ideas    and    she    had    determined    to    speak    to    her 


MUSLIN  69 

mother  on  this  (for  her)  all-important  subject — the 
conformity  of  her  outer  life  to  her  inner  life.  The 
power  to  prevail  upon  herself  to  do  what  she 
thought  wrong  merely  because  she  did  not  wish  to 
wound  other  people's  feelings  was  dying  in  her. 
Sooner  or  later  she  would  have  to  break  away ;  and 
as  the  hour  approached  when  they  should  go  to 
Mass  to  meet  Captain  Hibbert,  the  desire  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  away  became  almost  irresistible ; 
and  at  the  last  moment  it  was  only  a  foolish  fear  that 
such  a  declaration  might  interfere  with  her  sister's 
prospects  that  stayed  the  words  as  they  rose  to  her 
lips.  She  picked  up  her  gloves,  and  a  moment  after 
found  herself  in  the  brougham — packed  into  it, 
watching  the  expressionless  church-going  faces  of 
her  family. 

From  afar  the  clanging  of  a  high-swinging  bell 
was  heard,  and  the  harsh  reverberations,  travelling 
over  the  rocky  town-lands,  summoned  the  cottagers 
to  God.  The  peasants  stepped  aside  to  let  the 
carriage  pass.  Peasants  and  landlords  were  going 
to  worship  in  the  same  chapel,  but  it  would  seem 
from  the  proclamations  pasted  on  the  gate-posts  that 
the  house  of  prayer  had  gone  over  into  the  possession 
of  the  tenantry. 

'  Now,  Arthur — do  you  hear  ? — you  mustn't  look 
at  those  horrid  papers  !'  Mrs.  Barton;  whispered  to 
her  husband.  '  We  must  pretend  not  to  see  them. 
I  wonder  how  Father  Shannon  can  allow  such  a  thing, 
making  the  house  of  God  into — into  I  don't  know 
what,  for  the  purpose  of  preaching  robbery  and 
murder.  Just  look  at  the  country-people — how  sour 
and  wicked  they  look  !     Don't  they,  Alice  ?' 


70  MUSLIN 

'  Goodness  me  !'  said  Olive, '  who  in  the  world  can 
those  people  be  in  our  pew  ?' 

Mrs.  Barton  trembled  a  little.  Had  the  peasants 
seized  the  religious  possessions  of  their  oppressors  ? 
Dismissing  the  suspicion,  she  examined  the  backs 
indicated  by  Olive. 

'  Why,  my  deai*,  it  is  the  Goulds ;  what  can  have 
brought  them  all  this  way  ?' 

The  expected  boredom  of  the  service  was  for- 
gotten, and  Olive  shook  hands  warmly  with  Mrs. 
Gould  and  May. 

1  Why,  you  must  have  driven  fifteen  miles  ;  where 
are  your  horses  ?' 

1  We  took  the  liberty  of  sending  the  carriage  on 
to  Brookfield,  and  we  are  coming  on  to  lunch  with 
you — that  is  to  say,  if  you  will  let  us  ?'  cried  May. 

'  Of  course,  of  course  ;  but  how  nice  of  you  !' 

'  Oh  !  we  have  such  news  ;  but  it  was  courageous 
of  us  to  come  all  this  way.  Have  you  seen  those  ter- 
rible proclamations  ?' 

( Indeed  we  have.  Just  fancy  a  priest  allowing  his 
chapel  to  be  turned  into  a  political — political  what 
shall  I  call  it  ?' 

'  Bear-garden,'  suggested  May. 

'  And  Father  Shannon  is  going  to  take  the  chair 
at  the  meeting ;  he  wouldn't  get  his  dues  if  he 
didn't.' 

'  Hush,  hush  !  they  may  hear  you  ;  but  you  were 
saying  something  about  news.' 

'  Oh  !  don't  ask  me,'  said  Mrs.  Gould  ;  ( that's  May's 
affair — such  work!' 

'  Say  quickly  !  what  is  it,  May  ?' 

'  Look  here,  girls,  I  can't  explain  everything  now  ; 


MUSLIN  71 

but  we  are  going  to  give  a  ball — that  is  to  say,  all 
the  young  girls  are  going  to  subscribe.  It  will  only 
cost  us  about  three  pounds  apiece — that  is  to  say,  if 
we  can  get  forty  subscribers  ;  we  have  got  twenty 
already,  and  we  hope  you  will  join  us.  It  is  going 
to  be  called  the  Spinsters'  Ball.  But  there  is  such  a 
lot  to  be  done :  the  supper  to  be  got  together,  the 
decorations  of  the  room — splendid  room,  the  old 
schoolhouse,  you  know.  We  are  going  to  ask  you  to 
let  us  take  Alice  away  with  us.' 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  the  priest,  a  large  fat  man,  whose  new, 
thick-soled  boots  creaked  as  he  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  altar.  He  was  preceded  by  two  boys  dressed 
in  white  and  black  surplices,  who  rang  little  brass 
bells  furiously  ;  a  great  trampling  of  feet  was  heard, 
and  the  peasants  came  into  the  church,  coughing 
and  grunting  with  monotonous,  animal-like  voices ; 
and  the  sour  odour  of  cabin-smoked  frieze  arose — it 
was  almost  visible  in  the  great  beams  of  light  that 
poured  through  the  eastern  windows ;  whiffs  of  un- 
clean leather,  mingled  with  a  smell  of  a  sick  child ; 
and  Olive  and  May,  exchanging  looks  of  disgust, 
drew  forth  cambric  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  in 
unison  the  perfumes  of  white  rose  and  eau  d'opoponax 
evaporated  softly. 

Just  behind  Alice  a  man  groaned  and  cleared  his 
throat  with  loud  guffaws ;  she  listened  to  hear  the 
saliva  fall :  it  splashed  on  the  earthen  floor.  Farther 
away  a  circle  of  dried  and  yellowing  faces  bespoke 
centuries  of  damp  cabins  ;  they  moaned  and  sighed, 
a  prey  to  the  gross  superstition  of  the  moment. 
One  man,  bent  double,  beat  a  ragged  shirt  with  a 


72  MUSLIN 

clenched  fist ;  the  women  of  forty,  with  cloaks  drawn 
over  their  foreheads  and  trailing  on  the  ground  in 
long  black  folds,  crouched  until  only  the  lean,  hard- 
worked  hands  that  held  the  rosary  were  seen  over 
the  bench-rail. 

The  sermon  came  in  the  middle  of  Mass,  and  was 
a  violent  denunciation  of  the  Ladies  Cullen,  who,  it 
was  stated,  had  pursued  one  poor  boy  until  he 
took  refuge  in  an  empty  house,  the  door  of  which 
he  was  fortunately  enabled  to  fasten  against  them ; 
they  had  sent  a  sick  woman  blankets,  in  which  they 
had  not  neglected  to  enclose  some  tracts ;  amateur 
shopkeeping,  winter  clothing,  wood,  turf,  presents 
of  meal,  wine,  and  potatoes  were  all  vigorously 
attacked  as  the  wiles  of  the  Evil  One  to  lead  the 
faithful  from  the  true  Church. 


IX 

As  they  returned  from  church,  a  horseman  was 
seen  riding  rapidly  towards  them.  It  was  Captain 
Hibbert.  The  movement  of  his  shoulders,  as  he 
reined  in  his  mettlesome  bay,  was  picturesque, 
and  he  was  coaxingly  and  gushingly  upbraided  for 
neglect  of  his  religious  duties. 

During  lunch,  curiosity  rendered  May  and  Mrs. 
Gould  nearly  speechless  ;  but  their  carriage  had  not 
turned  into  the  highroad,  on  its  way  home,  when 
the  latter  melted  into  a  shower  of  laudatory  words 
and  phrases : 

fWhat  a  charming  man  Captain  Hibbert  is!  No 
wonder  you  young  ladies  like  the  military.     He  is 


MUSLIN  73 

so  good-looking — and  such  good  manners.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Alice  dear  ?' 

'I  think  the  Captain  a  very  handsome  man — 
indeed,  I  believe  that  there  are  not  two  opinions  on 
the  subject.' 

*  And  Olive — I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  saw 
a  more  beautiful  girl.  Such  hair  !  and  her  figure  so 
sylph-like !  I  do  not  know  what  the  young  ladies 
will  do  —  she  will  cut  everybody  out  at  the 
Castle !' 

'I  don't  know  about  that,'  said  May  jauntily; 
'what  one  man  will  turn  his  nose  up  at,  another 
will  go  wild  after.' 

Mrs.  Gould  did  not  answer  ;  but  her  lips  twitched, 
and  Alice  guessed  she  was  annoyed  that  May  could 
not  express  herself  less  emphatically.  In  a  few 
moments  the  conversation  was  continued  : 

'At  any  rate,  Captain  Hibbert  seems  to  think 
there  is  no  one  like  Olive ;  and  they'd  make  a 
handsome  couple.  What  do  you  think,  Alice  ?  Is 
there  any  chance  of  there  being  a  match  ?' 

'  I  really  can't  tell  you,  Mrs.  Gould.  Olive,  as 
you  say,  is  a  very  beautiful  girl,  and  I  suppose 
Captain  Hibbert  admires  her;  but  I  don't  think 
that  either  has,  up  to  the  present,  thought  of  the 
matter  more  seriously.' 

( You  must  admit,  Alice,  that  he  seems  a  bit  gone 
on  her,'  said  May,  with  a  direct  determination  to 
annoy  her  mother. 

'  May,  dear,  you  shouldn't  talk  in  that  slangy 
way ;  you  never  used  to ;  you  have  picked  it  up 
from  Mr.  Scully.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Scully,  Alice  ? 
Violet's  brother.' 


74  MUSLIN 

fYes,  I  met  him  the  night  we  dined  at  Lord 
Dungory's.' 

1  Oh,  of  course  you  did.  Well,  I  admit  I  don't 
like  him ;  but  May  does.  They  go  out  training 
horses  together.  I  don't  mind  that ;  but  I  wish  she 
wouldn't  imitate  his  way  of  talking.  He  has  been 
a  very  wild  young  man.' 

c  Now,  mother  dear,  I  wish  you  would  leave  off 
abusing  Fred.  I  have  repeatedly  told  you  that  I 
don't  like  it.' 

The  acerbity  of  this  remark  was  softened  by  May's 
manner,  and,  throwing  her  arms  on  her  mother's 
shoulders,  she  commenced  to  coax  and  cajole  her. 

The  Goulds  were  of  an  excellent  county  family. 
They  had  for  certainly  three  generations  lived  in 
comfortable  idleness,  watching  from  their  big  square 
house  the  different  collections  of  hamlets  toiling  and 
moiling,  and  paying  their  rents  every  gale  day.  It 
was  said  that  some  ancestor,  whose  portrait  still 
existed,  had  gone  to  India  and  come  back  with  the 
money  that  had  purchased  the  greater  part  of  the 
property.  But,  be  this  as  it  may,  in  Galway  three 
generations  of  landlordism  are  considered  sufficient 
repentance  for  shopkeeping  in  Gort,  not  to  speak  of 
Calcutta.  Since  then  the  family  history  had  been 
stainless.  Father  and  son  had  in  turn  put  their 
horses  out  to  grass  in  April,  had  begun  to  train 
them  again  in  August,  had  boasted  at  the  Dublin 
horse-show  of  having  been  out  cub-hunting,  had 
ridden  and  drunk  hard  from  the  age  of  twenty  to 
seventy.  But,  by  dying  at  fifty-five,  the  late  squire 
had  deviated  slightly  from  the  regular  line,  and  the 
son  and  heir  being  only  twelve,  a  pause  had  come 


MUSLIN  75 

in  the  hereditary  life  of  the  Goulds.  In  the  interim, 
however,  May  had  apparently  resolved  to  keep  up 
the  traditions  so  far  as  her  sex  was  supposed  to 
allow  her. 

They  lived  in  one  of  those  box-like  mansions,  so 
many  of  which  were  built  in  Ireland  under  the 
Georges.  On  either  side  trees  had  been  planted, 
and  they  stretched  to  the  right  and  left  like  the 
wings  of  a  theatre.  In  front  there  was  a  green 
lawn ;  at  the  back  a  sloppy  stableyard.  The  latter 
was  May's  especial  delight,  and  when  Mr.  Scully 
was  with  them,  it  seemed  impossible  to  induce  her 
to  leave  it.  He  frequently  rode  over  to  Beechgrove, 
and  towards  the  end  of  the  afternoon  it  became  easy 
to  persuade  him  to  stay  to  dinner.  And,  as  the 
night  darkened  and  the  rain  began  to  fall,  the 
inhospitality  of  turning  him  out  was  insisted  on  by 
May,  and  Mrs.  Gould  sent  up  word  that  a  room  was 
to  be  prepared  for  him.  Next  morning  he  sent 
home  for  a  change  of  things,  and  thus  it  was  not 
infrequent  for  him  to  protract  his  visit  to  the  extent 
of  three  or  four  days. 

His  great  friend,  Mrs.  Manly — a  lady  who  had 
jumped  five  feet,  four  months  before  the  birth  of 
her  sixth  child — had  said  that  his  was  a  'wasted 
life,'  and  the  phrase,  summing  up  what  most  people 
thought  of  him,  gained  currency,  and  was  now 
generally  used  whenever  his  conduct  was  criticized 
or  impeached.  After  having  been  in  London,  where 
he  spent  some  years  in  certain  vague  employments, 
and  having  contracted  as  much  debt  as  his  creditors 
would  permit,  and  more  than  his  father  would  pay, 
he  had   gone   through   the  Bankruptcy  Court,  and 


16  MUSLIN 

returned  home  to  drag  through  life  wearily,  through 
days  and  weeks  so  appallingly  idle,  that  he  often 
feared  to  get  out  of  bed  in  the  morning.  At  first 
his  father  had  tried  to  make  use  of  him  in  his 
agency  business,  and  it  was  principally  owing  to 
Mr.  Fred's  bullying  and  insolent  manners  that  Mr. 
Scully  was  now  unable  to  leave  his  house  unless 
accompanied  by  police. 

Fred  was  about  thirty  years  of  age.  His  legs 
were  long,  his  hands  were  bony,  and  'stableyard'  was 
written  in  capital  letters  on  his  face.  He  carried  a 
Sportsman  under  his  arm,  a  penny  and  a  half-crown 
jingled  in  his  pocket ;  and  as  he  walked  he  lashed 
the  trousers  and  boot,  whose  elegance  was  an  echo 
of  the  old  Regent  Street  days,  with  an  ash-plant. 

Such  was  the  physiology  of  this  being,  and  from 
it  the  psychology  is  easy  to  surmise :  a  complete 
powerlessness  to  understand  that  there  was  anything 
in  life  worth  seeking  except  pleasure — and  pleasure 
to  Fred  meant  horses  and  women.  Of  earthly  honour 
the  greatest  was  to  be  well  known  in  an  English 
hunting  country  ;  and  he  was  not  averse  to  speaking 
of  certain  ladies  of  title,  with  whom  he  had  been  on 
intimate  terms,  and  with  whom,  it  was  said,  he  cor- 
responded. On  occasions  he  would  read  or  recite 
poems,  cut  from  the  pages  of  the  Society  Journals, 
to  his  lady  friends. 

May,  however,  saw  nothing  but  the  outside.  The 
already  peeling-off  varnish  of  a  few  years  of  London 
life  satisfied  her.  Given  a  certain  versatility  in 
turning  a  complimentary  phrase,  the  abundant  ease 
with  which  he  explained  his  tastes,  which,  although 
few,  were  pronounced,  add  to  these  the  remnant  of 


MUSLIN  77 

fashion  that  still  lingered  in  his  wardrobe — scarfs 
from  the  Burlington  Arcade,  scent  from  Bond  Street, 
cracked  patent-leather  shoes  and  mended  silk  stock- 
ings— and  it  will  be  understood  how  May  built 
something  that  did  duty  for  an  ideal  out  of  this 
broken-down  swell. 

She  was  a  girl  of  violent  blood,  and,  excited  by 
the  air  of  the  hunting-field,  she  followed  Fred's  lead 
fearlessly ;  to  feel  the  life  of  the  horse  throbbing 
underneath  her  passioned  and  fevered  her  flesh 
until  her  mental  exaltation  reached  the  rushing  of 
delirium.  Then  his  evening  manners  fascinated 
her,  and,  as  he  leaned  back  smoking  in  the  dining- 
room  arm-chair,  his  patent-leather  shoes  propped  up 
against  the  mantelpiece,  he  showed  her  glimpses  of 
a  wider  world  than  she  knew  of — and  the  girl's  eyes 
softened  as  she  listened  to  his  accounts  of  the  great 
life  he  had  led,  the  county-houses  he  had  visited, 
and  the  legendary  runs  he  had  held  his  own  in. 
She  sympathized  with  him  when  he  explained  how 
hardly  fate  had  dealt  with  him  in  not  giving  him 
£5,000  a  year,  to  be  spent  in  London  and  North- 
amptonshire. 

He  cursed  Ireland  as  the  most  hideous  hole  under 
the  sun ;  he  frightened  Mrs.  Gould  by  reiterated 
assurances  that  the  Land  League  would  leave  them 
all  beggars ;  and,  having  established  this  point,  he 
proceeded  to  develop  his  plan  for  buying  young 
horses,  training  them,  and  disposing  of  them  in  the 
English  market.  Eventually  he  dismissed  his  audi- 
ence by  taking  up  the  newspaper  and  falling  asleep 
with  the  stump  of  a  burned-out  cigarette  between 
his    lips.      After   breakfast    he   was   seen   slouching 


78  MUSLIN 

through  the  laurels  on  his  way  to  the  stables.  From 
the  kitchen  and  the  larder — where  the  girls  were 
immersed  in  calculations  anent  the  number  of  hams, 
tongues,  and  sirloins  of  beef  that  would  be  required 
— he  could  be  seen  passing  ;  and  as  May  stood  on 
no  ceremony  with  Alice,  whistling  to  her  dogs,  and 
sticking  both  hands  into  the  pockets  of  her  blue 
dress,  she  rushed  after  him,  the  mud  of  the  yard 
oozing  through  the  loose,  broken  boots  which  she 
insisted  on  wearing.  Behind  the  stables  there  was 
a  small  field  that  had  lately  been  converted  into  an 
exercise-ground,  and  there  the  two  would  stand  for 
hours,  watching  a  couple  of  goat-like  colts,  mounted 
by  country  lads — still  in  corduroy  and  hobnails — 
walking  round  and  round. 

Mrs.  Gould  was  clearly  troubled  by  this  very  plain 
conduct.  Once  or  twice  she  allowed  a  word  of 
regret  to  escape  her,  and  Alice  could  see  that  she 
lived  in  awe  of  her  daughter.  And  May,  there  was 
no  doubt,  was  a  little  lawless  when  Fred  was  about 
her  skirts ;  but  when  he  was  gone  she  returned  to 
her  old,  glad,  affectionate  ways  and  to  her  work. 

The  girls  delighted  in  each  other's  society,  and 
the  arrangements  for  their  ball  were  henceforth  a 
continual  occupation.  The  number  of  letters  that 
had  to  be  written  was  endless.  Sitting  at  either 
end  of  the  table  in  the  drawing-room,  their  pens 
scratched  and  their  tongues  rattled  together ;  and, 
penetrated  with  the  intimacy  of  home,  all  kinds  of 
stories  were  told,  and  the  whole  country  was  passed 
in  review. 

'  And  do  you  know,'  said  May,  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  letter  she  was  writing,  '  when  this  affair 


MUSLIN  79 

was  first  started  mamma  was  afraid  to  go  in  for  it ; 
she  said  we'd  find  it  hard  to  hunt  up  fifty  spinsters 
in  Galway.' 

•  I  said  fifty  who  would  subscribe — a  very  different 
thing  indeed.' 

I  Oh  no,  you  didn't,  mamma;  you  said  there  weren't 
fifty  spinsters  in  Galway — a  jolly  lucky  thing  it 
would  be  if  there  weren't ;  wouldn't  it,  Alice  ?' 

Alice  was  busy  trying  to  disentange  a  difficult 
sentence.     Her  startled  face  made  May  laugh. 

'  It  isn't  cheering,  is  it  ?' 

'  I  didn't  hear  what  you  were  saying,'  she  an- 
swered, a  little  vexed  at  being  misunderstood.  '  But 
fifty,  surely,  is  a  great  number.  Are  there  so  many 
unmarried  women  in  Galway  ?' 

I I  should  think  there  are,'  replied  May,  as  if 
glorying  in  the  fact.  '  Who  are  there  down  your 
side  of  the  country  ?  Let's  count.  To  begin  with, 
there  are  the  Brennans — there  are  three  of  them, 
and  all  three  are  out  of  the  running,  distanced.' 

'Now,  May,  how  can  you  talk  like  that?'  said 
Mrs.  Gould,  and  she  pulled  up  her  skirt  so  that  she 
could  roast  her  fat  thick  legs  more  comfortably 
before  the  fire.  There  being  no  man  present,  she 
undid  a  button  or  two  of  her  dress. 

'You  said  so  yourself  the  other  day,  mother.' 

*  No,  I  didn't,  May,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  vex 
me.  What  I  say  I  stand  by,  and  I  merely  wondered 
why  girls  with  good  fortunes  like  the  Brennans 
didn't  get  married.' 

'  You  said  the  fact  was  there  was  no  one  to  marry.' 

'  May,   I  will   not  allow  you   to   contradict   me  !' 

exclaimed  Mrs.  Gould ;  and  she  grew  purple  to  the 


80  MUSLIN 

roots  of  her  white  hair.  '  I  said  the  Brennans  looked 
too  high,  that  they  wanted  gentlemen,  eldest  sons 
of  county  families ;  but  if  they'd  been  content  to 
marry  in  their  own  position  of  life  they  would  have 
been  married  long  ago.' 

1  Well,  mother  dear,  there's  no  use  being  angry 
about  it ;  let  the  thing  pass.  You  know  the  Bren- 
nans, Alice  ;  they  are  neighbours  of  yours.' 

'  Yes,  Cecilia  and  I  walked  over  to  see  them  the 
other  day ;  we  had  tea  with  them.' 

'  Their  great  hunting-ground  is  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel — they  take  it  in  turns,  a  couple  of  them  go 
up  every  six  months.' 

'  How  can  you  say  such  things,  May  ?  I  will  not 
suffer  it.' 

I  say  it !  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I've  only 
just  come  back  from  school ;  it  is  you  who  tell  me 
these  things  when  we  are  sitting  here  alone  of  an 
evening.' 

Mrs.  Gould's  face  again  became  purple,  and  she 
protested  vehemently :  '  I  shall  leave  the  room, 
May.  I  will  not  suffer  it  one  moment  longer.  I 
can't  think  how  it  is  you  dare  speak  to  me  in  that 
way ;  and,  what  is  worse,  attribute  to  me  such  ill- 
natured  remarks.1 

'  Now,  mother  dear,  don't  bother,  perhaps  I  did 
exaggerate.  I  am  very  sorry.  But,  there's  a  dear, 
sit  down,  and  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it.' 

'  You  do  annoy  one,  May,  and  I  believe  you  do 
it  on  purpose.  And  you  know  exactly  what  will 
be  disagreeable  to  say,  and  you  say  it,'  replied 
Mrs.  Gould ;  and  she  raised  her  skirt  so  as  to  let  the 
heat  of  the  fire  into  her  petticoats. 


MUSLIN  81 

1  Thank  God  that's  over,'  May  whispered  to  Alice  ; 
'  but  what  were  we  talking  about  ?' 

'  I  think  you  were  making  out  a  list  of  the  Galway 
spinsters/  said  Alice,  who  could  not  help  feeling  a 
little  amused,  though  she  was  sorry  for  Mrs.  Gould. 

' So  we  were,'  cried  May ;  '  we  were  speaking  of 
the  Brennans.  Do  you  know  their  friends  the 
Duffys  ?  There  are  five  of  them.  That's  a  nice 
little  covey  of  love-birds ;  I  don't  think  they  would 
fly  away  if  they  saw  a  sportsman  coming  into  the 
field.' 

'  I  never  heard  a  girl  talk  like  that/  murmured 
Mrs.  Gould,  without  raising  her  face  from  the  fire, 
*  that  wasn't  punished  for  it.  Perhaps,  my  lady,  you 
will  find  it  hard  enough  to  suit  yourself.  Wait  until 
you  have  done  two  or  three  Castle  seasons.  We'll 
see  how  you'll  speak  then.' 

Without  paying  any  attention  to  these  maternal 
forebodings,  May  continued : 

'  Then  there  are  Lord  Rosshill's  seven  daughters ; 
they  are  all  maidens,  and  are  likely  to  remain  so.' 

'  Are  they  all  unmarried  ?'  asked  Alice. 

'  Of  course  they  are !'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gould ; 
'how  could  they  be  anything  else?  Didn't  they 
all  want  to  marry  people  in  their  father's  position  ? 
And  that  wasn't  possible.  There're  seven  Honour- 
able Miss  Gores,  and  one  Loi'd  Rosshill — so  they  all 
remained  in  single  blessedness.' 

'Who's  making  ill-natured  remarks  now?'  ex- 
claimed May  triumphantly. 

'  I  am  not  making  ill-natured  remarks  ;  I  am  only 
saying  what's  true.  My  advice  to  young  girls  is 
that  they  should  be  glad  to  have  those  who  will 

F 


82  MUSLIN 

take  them.  If  they  can't  make  a  good  marriage  let 
them  make  a  bad  marriage ;  for,  believe  me,  it  is  far 
better  to  be  minding  your  own  children  than  your 
sister's  or  your  brother's  children.  And  I  can  assure 
you,  in  these  days  of  competition,  it  is  no  easy  matter 
to  get  settled.' 

'  It  is  the  same  now  as  ever  it  was,  and  there 
are  plenty  of  nice  young  men.  It  doesn't  prove, 
because  a  whole  lot  of  old  sticks  of  things  can't  get 
married,  that  I  shan't.' 

c  I  didn't  say  you  wouldn't  get  married,  May ;  I 
am  sure  that  any  man  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
have  you ;  but  what  I  say  is  that  these  grand 
matches  that  girls  dream  of  aren't  possible  now- 
adays. Nice  young  men  !  I  dare  say ;  and  plenty 
of  them,  I  know  them ;  young  scamps  without  a 
shilling,  who  amuse  themselves  with  a  girl  until 
they  are  tired  of  her,  and  then,  off  they  go.  Now, 
then,  let's  count  up  the  good  matches  that  are 
going  in  the  county ' 

At  this  moment  the  servant  was  heard  at  the 
door  bringing  in  the  tea. 

'  Oh  !  bother  !'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gould,  settling  her 
dress  hurriedly.  The  interval  was  full  of  secret 
irritation ;  and  the  three  women  watched  the 
methodical  butler  place  the  urn  on  the  table,  turn 
up  the  lamp  that  was  burning  low,  and  bring  chairs 
forward  from  the  farthest  corners. 

*  On  your  side  of  the  county,'  said  Mrs.  Gould,  as 
soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  '  there  is  our  brace  of 
baronets,  as  they  are  called.  But  poor  Sir  Richard 
— 1  am  afraid  he  is  a  bad  case — and  yet  he  never 
took  to  drink  until  he  was  five-and-thirty ;  and  as 


MUSLIN  83 

for  Sir  Charles—  of  course  there  are  great  advantages, 
he  has  a  very  fine  property ;  but  still  many  girls 
might — and  I  can  quite  understand  their  not  liking 
to  marry  him.' 

'  Why,  Mrs.  Gould,  what  is  wrong  with  him  ?' 
Alice  asked   innocently. 

'  Don't  you  know  ?'  said  May,  winking.  '  Haven't 
you  heard  ?  But  I  forgot,  he  isn't  your  side  of  the 
county.  He's  married  already :  at  least,  so  they 
say.' 

'  It  is  very  sad,  very  sad,  indeed,'  murmured  Mrs. 
Gould ;  '  he'd  have  been  a  great  match.' 

'  And  to  whom  is  he  married  ?'  said  Alice,  whose 
curiosity  was  awakened  by  the  air  of  mystery  with 
which  the  baronet  was  surrounded. 

1  Well,  he's  not  exactly  married,'  replied  May, 
laughing  ;   '  but  he  has  a  large  family. ' 

'  May,  I  will  not  allow  it ;  it  is  very  wrong  of  you, 
indeed,  to  talk  like  that ' 

'  Now,  mother  dear,  don't  get  into  a  passion ; 
where's  the  harm  ?  The  whole  country  knows  it ; 
Violet  was  talking  of  it  to  me  only  the  other  day. 
There  isn't  a  man  within  a  mile  of  us,  so  we  needn't 
be  on  our  P's  and  Q's.' 

'  And  who  is  the  mother  of  all  these  children  ?' 
Alice  asked. 

'  A  country-woman  with  whom  he  lives,'  said  May. 
1  Just  fancy  marrying  a  man  with  a  little  dirty  crowd 
of  illegitimate  children  running  about  the  stable- 
yard  !' 

'  The  usual  thing  in  such  cases  is  to  emigrate 
them,'  said  Mrs.  Gould  philosophically ;  and  she 
again  distended  herself  before  the  fire. 


84  MUSLIN 

'  Emigrate  them  !'  cried  May  ;  '  if  he  emigrated 
them  to  the  moon,  I  wouldn't  marry  such  a  man ; 
would  you,  Alice  ?' 

( I  certainly  wouldn't  like  to/  and  her  sense  of 
humour  being  now  tickled  by  the  conversation,  she 
added  slyly  :  '  but  you  were  counting  up  the  good 
matches  in  the  county.' 

'  Ah  !  so  we  were,'  said  the  old  lady.  e  Well,  there 
is  Mr.  Adair.  I  am  sure  no  girl  would  wish  for  a 
better  husband.' 

'  Oh,  the  old  frump  !  why  he  must  be  forty  if  he's 
a  day.  You  remember,  Alice,  it  was  he  who  took 
me  down  to  dinner  at  Lord  Dungory's.  And  he 
talked  all  the  time  of  his  pamphlet  on  the  Amalga- 
mation of  the  Unions,  which  was  then  in  the  hands 
of  the  printer  ;  and  the  other  in  which  he  had  pulled 
Mr.  Parnell's  ears,  Ireland  under  the  Land  League, 
and  the  series  of  letters  he  was  thinking  of  contri- 
buting to  the  Irish  Times  on  high-farming  versus 
peasant  proprietors.  Just  fancy,  Alice,  living  with 
such  a  man  as  that !' 

1  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  girls  think,'  said 
Mrs.  Gould,  whose  opinions  were  moods  of  mind 
rather  than  convictions,  '  but  I  assure  you  he  passes 
for  being  the  cleverest  man  in  the  county  ;  and  it  is 
said  that  Gladstone  is  only  waiting  to  give  him  a 
chance.  But  as  you  like  ;  he  won't  do,  so  let  him 
pass.  Then  there  is  Mr.  Ryan,  he  ought  to  be  well 
off;  he  farms  thousands  of  acres.' 

'  One  might  as  well  marry  a  herdsman  at  once. 
Did  you  ever  hear  what  he  once  said  to  a  lady  at 
a  ball ;  you  know,  about  the  docket  ?' 

Alice  said  that  she  had  heard  the  story,  and  the 


MUSLIN  85 

conversation  turned  on  Mr.  Lynch.  Mrs.  Gould 
admitted  that  he  was  the  worser  of  the  two. 

'  He  smells  so  dreadfully  of  whiskey/  said  Alice 
timidly. 

'  Ah !  you  see  she  is  coming  out  of  her  shell  at 
last,'  exclaimed  May.  '  I  saw  you  weren't  having  a 
very  good  time  of  it  when  he  took  you  down  to 
dinner  at  Dungory  Castle.  I  wonder  they  were 
asked.  Fred  told  me  that  he  had  never  heard  of 
their  having  been  there  before.' 

'  It  is  very  difficult  to  make  up  a  number  some- 
times,' suggested  Mrs.  Gould;  'but  they  are  certainly 
very  coarse.  I  hear,  when  Mr.  Ryan  and  Mr.  Lynch 
go  to  fairs,  that  they  sleep  with  their  herdsman,  and 
in  Mayo  there  is  a  bachelor's  house  where  they  have 
fine  times  —  whiskey -drinking  and  dancing  until 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.' 

'  And  where  do  the  ladies  come  from,  May  ?' 
asked  Alice,  for  she  now  looked  on  the  girl  as  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  information. 

1  Plenty  of  ladies  in  the  village,'  replied  Mrs.  Gould, 
rubbing  her  shins  complacently  ;  '  that's  what  I  used 
to  hear  of  in  my  day,  and  I  believe  the  custom  isn't 
even  yet  quite  extinct.' 

'  And  are  there  no  other  beaux  in  the  county  ? 
Does  that  exhaust  the  list  ?' 

'  Oh  !  no  ;  but  there's  something  against  them  all. 
There  are  a  few  landlords  who  live  away,  and  of 
whom  nobody  knows  anything.  Then  there  are  some 
boys  at  school ;  but  they  are  too  young ;  there  is 
Mr.  Reed,  the  dispensary  doctor.  Mr.  Burke  has 
only  two  hundred  a  year  ;  but  if  his  brother  were  to 
die  he  would  be  the  Marquis  of  Kilcarney.     He'd 


86  xMUSLIN 

be  a  great  match  then,  In  point  of  position  ;  but  I 
hear  the  estates  are  terribly  encumbered.' 

'  Has  the  present  Marquis  no  children  ?'  said 
Alice. 

'  He's  not  married/  said  Mrs.  Gould ;  '  he's  a 
confirmed  old  bachelor.  Just  fancy,  there's  twenty 
years  between  the  brothers.  I  remember,  in  old 
times,  the  present  Marquis  used  to  be  the  great 
beau  at  the  Castle.  I  don't  believe  there  was  a  girl 
in  Dublin  who  didn't  have  a  try  at  him.  Then  who 
else  is  there  ?  I  suppose  I  daren't  mention  the  name 
of  Mr.  Fred  Scully,  or  May  will  fly  at  me.' 

'  No,  mother  dear,  I  won't  fly  at  you  ;  but  what  is 
the  use  of  abusing  Fred  ? — we  have  known  him  all 
our  lives.  If  he  has  spent  his  money  he  has  done 
no  worse  than  a  hundred  other  young  men.  I  know 
I  can't  marry  him,  and  I  am  not  in  love  with  him ; 
but  I  must  amuse  myself  with  something.  I  can't 
sit  here  all  day  listening  to  you  lamenting  over  the 
Land  League  ;  and,  after  a  certain  number  of  hours, 
conjecturing  whether  Mickey  Moran  will  or  will  not 
pay  his  rent  becomes  monotonous.' 

'  Now  don't  vex  me,  May ;  for  I  won't  stand  it,' 
said  Mrs.  Gould,  getting  angry.  '  When  you  ask 
me  for  a  new  dress  you  don't  think  of  what  you  are 
saying  now.  It  was  only  the  other  day  you  were 
speaking  to  me  of  refurnishing  this  room.  I  should 
like  to  know  how  that's  to  be  done  if  there  was  no 
one  to  look  after  Mickey  Moran's  rent  ?' 

The  girls  looked  round  the  large,  dull  room. 
Emaciated  forms  of  narrow,  antique  sofas  were  seen 
dimly  in  the  musty -smelling  twilight.  Screens 
worked  in  red  and  green  wools  stood  in  the  vicinity 


MUSLIN  87 

of  the  fireplace,  the  walls  were  lined  with  black 
pictures,  and  the  floor,  hidden  in  dark  shadow  and 
sunken  in  places,  conveyed  an  instant  idea  of  damp 
and  mildew. 

'  I  think  that  something  ought  to  be  done,'  said 
May.  '  Just  look  at  these  limp  curtains  !  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  dreary  ?  Are  they  brown,  or 
red,  or  chocolate  ?' 

'They  satisfied  your  betters,'  said  Mrs.  Gould,  as 
she  lighted  her  bedroom  candle.  '  Goodness  me  !' 
she  added,  glancing  at  the  gilt  clock  that  stood  on 
the  high,  stucco,  white-painted  chimney-piece,  amid 
a  profusion  of  jingling  glass  candelabra,  fit  is  really 
half-past  twelve  o'clock  !' 

'  Gracious  me  !  there's  another  evening  wasted ; 
we  must  really  try  and  be  more  industrious.  It  is 
too  late  to  do  anything  further  to-night,'  said  May. 
'  Come  on,  Alice,  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed.' 


X 

During  the  whole  of  the  next  week,  until  the  very 
night  of  the  ball,  the  girls  hadn't  a  moment  they 
could  call  their  own.  It  was  impossible  to  say  how 
time  went.  There  were  so  many  things  to  think  of 
— to  remind  each  other  of.  Nobody  knew  what 
they  had  done  last,  or  what  they  should  do  next. 
The  principle  on  which  the  ball  had  been  arranged 
was  this  :  the  forty-five  spinsters  who  had  agreed  to 
bear  the  expense,  which  it  was  guaranteed  would 
not  exceed  £3  10s.  apiece,  were  supplied  each  with 
five  tickets  to  be  distributed  among  their  friends. 


88  MUSLIN 

To  save  money,  the  supper  had  been  provided  by 
the  Goulds  and  Manlys,  and  day  after  day  the  rich 
smells  of  roast  beef  and  the  salt  vapours  of  boiling 
hams  trailed  along  the  passages,  and  ascended 
through  the  banisters  of  the  staircases  in  Beech 
Grove  and  Manly  Park.  Fifty  chickens  had  been 
killed  ;  presents  of  woodcock  and  snipe  were  received 
from  all  sides ;  salmon  had  arrived  from  Galway ; 
cases  of  champagne  from  Dublin.  As  a  wit  said, 
'  Circe  has  prepared  a  banquet  and  is  calling  us  in.' 

After  much  hesitation,  a  grammar-school,  built  by 
an  enterprising  landlord  for  an  inappreciative  popu- 
lation that  had  declined  to  support  it,  was  selected 
as  the  most  suitable  location  for  the  festivities.  It 
lay  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  and  this  was  in 
itself  an  advantage.  To  the  decoration  of  the  rooms 
May  and  Fred  diligently  applied  themselves.  Away 
they  went  every  morning,  the  carriage  filled  with 
yards  of  red  cloth,  branches  of  evergreen,  oak  and 
holly,  flags  and  Chinese  lanterns.  You  see  them : 
Fred  mounted  on  a  high  ladder,  May  and  the  maid 
striving  to  hand  him  a  long  garland  which  is  to  be 
hung  between  the  windows.  You  see  them  leaning 
over  the  counter  of  a  hardware  shop,  explaining 
how  oblong  and  semicircular  pieces  of  tin  are  to  be 
provided  with  places  for  candles  (the  illumination  ol 
the  room  had  remained  an  unsolved  problem  until 
ingenious  Fred  had  hit  upon  this  plan) ;  you  see 
them  running  up  the  narrow  staircases,  losing  them- 
selves in  the  twisty  passages,  calling  for  the  house- 
keeper ;  you  see  them  trying  to  decide  which  is  the 
gentlemen's  cloakroom,  which  the  ladies',  and  won- 
dering if  they  will  be  able  to  hire  enough  furniture 


MUSLIN  89 

in  the  town  to  arrange  a  sitting-room  for  the 
chaperons. 

As  May  said,  '  We  shall  have  them  hanging  about 
our  heels  the  whole  evening  if  we  don't  try  to  make 
them  comfortable.' 

At  last  the  evening  of  the  ball  arrived,  and,  as 
the  clocks  were  striking  eight,  dressed  and  ready  to 
start,  Alice  knocked  at  May's  door. 

'  What !  dressed  already  ?'  said  May,  as  she  leaned 
towards  the  glass,  illuminated  on  either  side  with 
wax-candles,  and  looked  into  the  whiteness  of  her 
bosom.  She  wore  a  costume  of  Prussian-blue  velvet 
and  silk  ;  the  bodice  (entirely  of  velvet)  was  pointed 
back  and  front,  and  a  berthe  of  moresque  lace  soft- 
ened the  contrast  between  it  and  the  cream  tints  of 
the  skin.  These  and  the  flame-coloured  hair  were 
the  spirits  of  the  shadowy  bedchamber ;  whereas 
Alice,  in  her  white  corded-silk,  her  clear  candid 
eyes,  was  the  truer  Madonna  whose  ancient  and 
inferior  prototype  stood  on  her  bi'acket  in  a  forgotten 
corner. 

'  Oh  !  how  nice  you  look  !'  exclaimed  May ;  '  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  anyone  look  so  pure.' 

Alice  smiled ;  and,  interpreting  the  smile,  May 
said : 

'  I  am  afraid  you  don't  think  so  much  of  me.' 

'  I  am  sure,  May,  you  look  very  nice  indeed,  and 
just  as  you  would  like  to  look.' 

To  May's  excitable  mind  it  was  not  difficult  to 
suggest  a  new  train  of  thought,  and  she  immediately 
proceeded  to  explain  why  she  had  chosen  her  present 
dress. 

'  I  knew  that  you,  and  Olive,  and  Violet,  and  Lord 


90  MUSLIN 

knows  how  many  others  would  be  in  white,  and,  as 
we  shall  all  have  to  wear  white  at  the  Drawing-Room, 
I  thought  I'd  appear  in  this.  But  isn't  the  whole 
thing  delightful  ?  I  am  engaged  already  for  several 
dances,  and  I  have  been  practising  the  step  all  day 
with  Fred.'  Then,  singing  to  herself,  she  waltzed 
in  front  of  the  glass  at  the  immediate  risk  of  falling 
into  the  bath : 

'  "  Five-and-forty  spinsters  baked  in  a  pie  ! 
When  the  pie  was  opened  the  maids  began  to  sing, 
Wasn't  that  a  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King  !" 

{ Oh,  dear,  there's  my  garter  coming  down !'  and, 
dropping  on  to  the  sofa,  the  girl  hitched  up  the 
treacherous  article  of  dress.  c  And  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  my  legs,'  she  said,  advancing  a  pair  of 
stately  calves.     '  Violet  says  they  are  too  large.' 

'  They  seem  to  me  to  be  all  right ;  but,  May  dear, 
you  haven't  got  a  petticoat  on.' 

fYou  can't  wear  petticoats  with  these  tight 
dresses ;  one  can't  move  one's  legs  as  it  is.' 

1  But  don't  you  think  you'll  feel  cold — catch  cold  ?' 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  no  danger  of  cold  when  you  have 
shammy-leather  drawers.' 

Then,  overcome  by  her  exuberant  feelings,  May 
began  to  sing  :  '  Five-and-forty  spinsters  baked  in  a 
pie/  etc.  '  Five-and-forty,'  she  said,  breaking  off, 
'have  subscribed.  I  wonder  how  many  will  be 
married  by  this  time  next  year?  You  know,  I 
shouldn't  care  to  be  married  all  at  once ;  I'd  want 
to  see  the  world  a  bit  first.  Even  if  I  liked  a  man, 
I  shouldn't  care  to  marry  him  now ;  time  enough  in 
about  three  years'  time,  when  one  is  beginning  to 


MUSLIN  91 

get  tired  of  flirtations  and  parties.  I  have  often 
wondered  what  it  must  be  like.  Just  fancy  waking 
up  and  seeing  a  man's  face  on  the  pillow,  or  for ' 

'  No,  no,  May ;  I  will  not ;  you  must  not.  I  will 
not  listen  to  these  improper  conversations  !' 

'Now,  don't  get  angry,  there's  a  dear,  nice  girl; 
you're  worse  than  Violet,  'pon  my  word  you  are ; 
but  we  must  be  off.  It  is  a  good  half-hour's  drive, 
and  we  shall  want  to  be  there  before  nine.  The 
people  will  begin  to  come  in  about  that  time.' 

Mrs.  Gould  was  asleep  in  the  drawing-room,  and, 
as  they  awoke  her,  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard 
on  the  gravel  outside.  The  girls  hopped  into  the 
carriage.  Mrs.  Gould  pulled  herself  in,  and,  blotted 
out  in  a  far  corner,  thought  vaguely  of  asking  May 
not  to  dance  more  than  three  times  with  Fred 
Scully ;  May  chattered  to  Alice  or  looked  im- 
patiently through  the  misted  windows  for  the 
familiar  signs ;  the  shadow  of  a  tree  on  the  sky,  or 
the  obscure  outline  of  a  farm-building  that  would 
tell  how  near  they  were  to  their  destination.  Sud- 
denly the  carriage  turned  to  the  right,  and  entered 
a  sort  of  crescent.  There  were  hedges  on  both  sides, 
through  which  vague  forms  were  seen  scrambling, 
but  May  humorously  explained  that  as  no  veiy  un- 
popular landlord  was  going  to  be  present,  it  was  not 
thought  that  an  attempt  would  be  made  to  blow  up 
the  building ;  and,  conscious  of  the  beautiful  night 
which  hung  like  a  blue  mysterious  flower  above 
them,  they  passed  through  a  narrow  doorway  draped 
with  red-striped  canvas. 

c  Now,  mother,  what  do  you  think  of  the  decora- 
tions ?     Do  say  a  word  of  praise.' 


92  MUSLIN 

'  I've  always  said,  May,  that  you  have  excellent 
taste.' 

The  school-hall  and  refectory  had  been  trans- 
formed into  ball  and  supper  rooms,  and  the  narrow 
passages  intervening  were  hung  with  red  cloth  and 
green  garlands  of  oak  and  holly.  On  crossing 
threads  Chinese  lanterns  were  wafted  luminously. 

'  What  taste  Fred  has  !'  said  May,  pointing  to  the 
huge  arrangement  that  covered  the  end  wall.  '  And 
haven't  my  tin  candelabra  turned  out  a  success  ? 
There  will  be  no  grease,  and  the  room  couldn't  be 
better  lighted.' 

'  But  look !'  said  Alice,  '  look  at  all  those  poor 
people  staring  in  at  the  window.  Isn't  it  dreadful 
that  they,  in  the  dark  and  cold,  should  be  watching 
us  dancing  in  our  beautiful  dresses,  and  in  our  warm 
bright  room  ?' 

e  You  don't  want  to  ask  them  in,  do  you  ?' 

'  Of  course  not,  but  it  seems  very  sinister  ;  doesn't 
it  seem  so  to  you  ?' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  its  being  sinister  ; 
but  sinister  or  not  sinister,  it  couldn't  be  helped  ;  for 
if  we  had  nailed  up  every  window  we  should  have 
simply  died  of  heat.' 

'  I  hope  you  won't  think  of  opening  the  windows 
too  soon,'  said  Mrs.  Gould.  '  You  must  think  of  us 
poor  chaperons,  who  will  be  sitting  still  all  night.' 

Then,  in  the  gaping  silence,  the  three  ladies 
listened  to  the  melancholy  harper  and  the  lachry- 
mose fiddlers  who,  on  the  estrade  in  the  far  corner, 
sat  tuning  their  instruments.  At  last  the  people 
began  to  come  in.  The  first  were  a  few  stray  black- 
coats,  then  feminine  voices  were  heard  in  the  passages, 


MUSLIN  93 

and  necks  and  arms,  green  toilettes  and  white  satin 
shoes,  were  seen  passing  and  taking  seats.  Two 
Miss  Duffys,  the  fattest  of  the  four,  were  with  their 
famous  sister  Bertha.  Bertha  was  rarely  seen  in 
Galway ;  she  lived  with  an  aunt  in  Dublin,  where 
her  terrible  tongue  was  dreaded  by  the  debutantes  at 
the  Castle.  In  a  yellow  dress  as  loud  and  as  hard 
as  her  voice,  she  stood  explaining  that  she  had 
come  down  expressly  for  the  ball.  Opposite,  the 
Honourable  Miss  Gores  made  a  group  of  five  ;  and 
a  few  men  who  preferred  consideration  to  amusement 
made  their  way  towards  them.  The  Brennans — 
Gladys  and  Zoe — as  soon  as  they  saw  Alice,  asked 
after  Lord  Dungoiy ;  and  all  the  girls  were  anxious 
to  see  Violet,  who  they  feared  would  seem  thin  in  a 
low  dress. 

Hers  was  the  charm  of  an  infinite  fragility.  The 
bosom,  whose  curves  were  so  faint  that  they  were 
epicene,  was  set  in  a  bodice  of  white  broche,  joining 
a  skirt  of  white  satin,  with  an  overskirt  of  tulle,  and 
the  only  touch  of  colour  was  a  bunch  of  pink  and 
white  azaleas  worn  on  the  left  shoulder.  And  how 
irresistibly  suggestive  of  an  Indian  carved  ivory  were 
the  wee  foot,  the  thin  arm,  the  slender  cheek  ! 

1  How  sweet  you  look,  Violet,'  said  Alice,  with 
frank  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

'  Thanks  for  saying  so  ;  'tisn't  often  we  girls  pay 
each  other  compliments.  But  you,  you  do  look  ever 
so  nice  in  that  white  silk.  It  becomes  you  per- 
fectly.' And  then,  her  thoughts  straying  suddenly 
from  Alice's  dress,  she  said  : 

'  Do  you  see  Mr.  Burke  over  there  ?  If  his  brother 
died  he  would  be  a  marquis.     Do  you  know  him  ?' 


94  MUSLIN 

'  Yes ;  I  met  him  at  dinner  at  Dungory  Castle.' 
'  Well,  introduce  him  to  me  if  you  get  a  chance.' 
1 1  am  afraid  you  will  find  him  stupid.' 
(  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  ;  'tis  good  form  to  be 
seen  dancing  with  an   Honourable.     Do  you  know 
many  men  in  the  room  ?' 

Alice  admitted  she  knew  no  one,  and,  lapsing  into 
silence,  the  girls  scanned  the  ranks  for  possible 
partners.  Poor  Sir  Richard,  already  very  drunk,  his 
necktie  twisted  under  his  right  ear,  was  vainly 
attempting  to  say  something  to  those  whom  he 
knew,  or  fancied  he  knew.  Sir  Charles,  forgetful  of 
the  family  at  home,  was  flirting  with  a  young  girl 
whose  mother  was  probably  formulating  the  details 
of  a  new  emigration  scheme.  Dirty  Mr.  Ryan,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  baggy 
trousers,  whispered  words  of  counsel  to  Mr.  Lynch  : 
a  rumour  had  gone  abroad  that  Captain  Hibbert  was 
going  to  hunt  that  season  in  Galway,  and  would 
want  a  couple  of  horses.  Mr.  Adair  was  making 
grotesque  attempts  to  talk  to  a  lady  of  dancing. 
On  every  side  voices  were  heard  speaking  of  the 
distances  they  had  achieved :  some  had  driven 
twenty,  some  thirty  miles. 

Already  the  first  notes  of  the  waltz  had  been 
shrieked  out  by  the  cornet,  and  Mr.  Fred  Scully, 
with  May's  red  tresses  on  his  shoulder,  was  about 
to  start,  when  Mrs.  Barton  and  Olive  entered.  Olive, 
in  white  silk,  so  tightly  drawn  back  that  every 
line  of  her  supple  thighs,  and  every  plumpness  of 
her  superb  haunches  was  seen  ;  and  the  double  gar- 
land of  geraniums  that  encircled  the  tulle  veiling 
seemed  like   flowers   of  blood    scattered    on   virgin 


MUSLIN  95 

snow.  Her  beauty  imposed  admiration ;  and,  mur- 
muring assent,  the  dancers  involuntarily  drew  into 
lines,  and  this  pale,  uncoloured  loveliness,  her  high 
nose  seen,  and  her  silly  laugh  heard,  by  the  side  of 
her  sharp,  brown-eyed  mother,  passed  down  the 
room.  Lord  Dungory  and  Lord  Rosshill  advanced 
to  meet  them ;  a  moment  after  Captain  Hibbert  and 
Mr.  Burke  came  up  to  ask  for  dances ;  a  waltz  was 
promised  to  each.  A  circling  crowd  of  black-coats 
instantly  absorbed  the  triumphant  picture ;  the 
violinist  scraped,  and  the  harper  twanged  intermit- 
tently ;  a  band  of  fox-hunters  arrived ;  girls  had 
been  chosen,  and  in  the  small  space  of  floor  that 
remained  the  white  skirts  and  red  tail  coats  passed 
and  repassed,  borne  along  Strauss's  indomitable 
rhythms. 

An  hour  passed :  perspiration  had  begun  to  loosen 
the  work  of  curling-tongs ;  dust  had  thickened  the 
voices,  but  the  joy  of  exercise  was  in  every  head  and 
limb.  A  couple  would  rush  off  for  a  cup  of  tea,  or 
an  ice,  and  then,  pale  and  breathless,  return  to  the 
fray.  Mrs.  Manly  was  the  gayest.  Pushing  her 
children  out  of  her  skirts,  she  called  upon  May  : 

(  Now  then,  May,  have  you  a  partner  ?  We  are 
going  to  have  a  real  romp — we  are  going  to  have 
Kitchen  Lancers.  I'll  undertake  to  see  everybody 
through  them.' 

A  select  few,  by  signs,  winks,  and  natural  instinct, 
were  drawn  towards  this  convivial  circle  ;  but,  not- 
withstanding all  her  efforts  to  make  herself  under- 
stood, Mrs.  Manly  was  sadly  hampered  by  the 
presence  of  a  tub-like  old  lady  who,  with  a  small 
boy,  was  seeking  a  vis-a-vis. 


96  MUSLIN 

'  My  dear  May,  we  can't  have  her  here,  we  are 
going  to  romp  ;  anyone  can  see  that.  Tell  her  we 
are  going  to  dance  Kitchen  Lancers.' 

But  the  old  lady  could  not  be  made  to  under- 
stand, and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  was  disen- 
tangled from  the  sixteen.  At  that  moment  the 
appearance  of  a  waiter  with  a  telegram  caused  the 
dancers  to  pause.  Mr.  Burke's  name  was  whispered 
in  front  of  the  messenger  ;  but  he  who,  until  that 
evening,  had  been  Mr.  Burke,  was  now  the  Marquis 
of  Kilcarney.  The  smiling  mouth  drooped  to  an 
expression  of  fear  as  he  tore  open  the  envelope. 
One  glance  was  enough  ;  he  looked  about  the  room 
like  one  dazed.  Then,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
vague  faces  seen  looking  through  the  wet  November 
pane,  he  muttered  :  '  Oh  !  you  brutes,  you  brutes  ! 
so  you  have  shot  my  brother  !' 

Unchecked,  the  harper  twanged  and  the  fiddler 
scraped  out  the  tune  of  their  Lancers.  Few  really 
knew  what  had  happened,  and  the  newly-made 
marquis  had  to  fight  his  way  through  women  who, 
in  skin-tight  dresses,  danced  with  wantoning  move- 
ments of  the  hips,  and  threw  themselves  into  the 
arms  of  men,  to  be,  in  true  kitchen-fashion,  whirled 
round  and  round  with  prodigious  violence. 

Nevertheless,  Lord  Dungoiy  and  Lord  Rosshill 
could  not  conceal  their  annoyance  ;  both  felt  keenly 
that  they  had  compromised  themselves  by  remaining 
in  the  room  after  the  news  of  so  dreadful  a  catas- 
trophe. But,  as  Mrs.  Barton  was  anxious  that  her 
daughter's  success  should  not  be  interfered  with, 
nothing  could  be  done  but  to  express  sympathy  in 
appropriate  words.    Nobody,  Lord  Dungory  declared, 


MUSLIN  97 

could  regret  the  dastardly  outrage  that  had  been 
committed  more  than  he.  He  had  known  Lord 
Kilcarney  many  years,  and  he  had  always  found  him 
a  man  whom  no  one  could  fail  to  esteem.  The 
earldom  was  one  of  the  oldest  in  Ireland,  but  the 
marquisate  did  not  go  back  farther  than  the  last  few 
years.  Beaconsfield  had  given  him  a  step  in  the- 
peerage  ;  no  one  knew  why.  A  very  curious  man — 
most  retiring — hated  society.  Then  Lord  Rosshill 
related  an  anecdote  concerning  an  enormous  water- 
jump  that  he  and  Lord  Kilcarney  had  taken  together; 
and  he  also  spoke  of  the  late  Marquis's  aversion  to 
matrimony,  and  hinted  that  he  had  once  refused  a 
match  which  would  have  relieved  the  estates  of  all 
debt.  But  he  could  not  be  persuaded  ;  indeed,  he 
had  never  been  known  to  pay  any  woman  the  slightest 
attention. 

'  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  present  Marquis  won't  prove 
so  difficult  to  please,'  said  Mrs.  Gould.  The  remark 
was  an  unfortunate  one,  and  the  chaperons  present 
resented  this  violation  of  their  secret  thoughts. 
Mrs.  Barton  and  Mrs.  Scully  suddenly  withdrew 
their  eyes,  which  till  then  had  been  gently  following 
their  daughters  through  the  figures  of  the  dance, 
and,  forgetting  what  they  foresaw  would  be  the 
cause  of  future  enmity,  united  in  condemning  Mrs. 
Gould.  Obeying  a  glance  of  the  Lady  Hamilton 
eyes,  Lord  Dungory  said  : 

'  On  cherche  V amour  dans  les  boudoirs,  non  pas  dans 
les  cimetieres,  madame.'  Then  he  added  (but  this 
time  only  for  the  private  ear  of  Mrs.  Barton)  .  '  La 
mer  ne  rend  pas  ses  morts,  viais  la  tombe  nous  donne 
souvent  les  ecussons.' 


98  MUSLIN 

'  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !'  laughed  Mrs.  Barton,  '  ce  Milord, 
it  trouve  I 'esprit  partout  ; '  and  her  light  coaxing  laugh 
dissipated  this  moment  of  ball-room  gloom. 

And  Alice  ?  Although  conscious  of  her  deficiency 
in  the  trois  temps,  determined  not  to  give  in  without 
an  effort,  she  had  suffered  May  to  introduce  her  to  a 
couple  of  officers  ;  but  to  execute  the  step  she  knew 
theoretically,  or  to  talk  to  her  partner  when  he  had 
dragged  her,  breathless,  out  of  the  bumping  dances, 
she  found  to  be  difficult,  so  ignorant  was  she  of 
hunting  and  of  London  theatres,  and  having  read 
only  one  book  of  Ouida's,  it  would  be  vain  for  her 
to  hope  to  interest  her  partner  in  literature.  The 
other  girls  seemed  more  at  home  with  their  partners, 
and  while  she  walked  with  hers,  wondering  what 
she  should  say  next,  she  noticed  behind  screens, 
under  staircases,  at  the  end  of  dark  passages,  girls 
whom  she  had  known  at  St.  Leonards  incapable  of 
learning,  or  even  understanding  the  simplest  lessons, 
suddenly  transformed  as  if  by  magic  into  bright, 
clever,  agreeable  girls — capable  of  fulfilling  that  only 
duty  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  women :  of  amusing 
men.  But  she  could  not  do  this,  and  must,  therefore, 
resign  herself  to  an  aimless  life  of  idleness,  and  be 
content  in  a  few  years  to  take  a  place  amid  the  Miss 
Brennans,  the  Ladies  Cullen,  the  Miss  Duffys,  the 
Honourable  Miss  Gores,  those  whom  she  saw  sitting 
round  the  walls  '  waiting  to  be  asked,'  as  did  the 
women  in  the  old  Babylonian  Temple. 

Such  was  her  criticism  of  life  as  she  sat  wearily 
answering  Mrs.  Gould's  tiresome  questions,  not  daring 
to  approach  her  mother,  who  was  laughing  with  Olive, 
Captain  Hibbert,  and  Lord  Dungory.     Waltz  after 


MUSLIN  99 

waltz  had  been  played,  and  her  ears  reeked  with 
their  crying  strain.  One  or  two  men  had  asked  her 
'  if  they  might  have  the  pleasure';  but  she  was 
determined  to  try  dancing  no  more,  and  had  refused 
them.  At  last,  at  the  earnest  request  of  Mrs.  Gould, 
she  had  allowed  Dr.  Reed  to  take  her  in  to  supper. 
He  was  an  earnest-eyed,  stout,  commonplace  man, 
and  looked  some  years  over  thirty.  Alice,  however, 
found  she  could  talk  to  him  better  than  with  her 
other  partners,  and  when  they  left  the  clattering 
supper-room,  where  plates  were  being  broken  and 
champagne  was  being  drunk  by  the  gallon,  sitting 
on  the  stairs,  he  talked  to  her  till  voices  were  heard 
calling  for  his  services.  A  dancer  had  been  thrown 
and  had  broken  his  leg.  Alice  Saw  something  carried 
towards  her,  and,  rushing  towards  May,  whom  she 
saw  in  the  doorway,  she  asked  for  an  explanation. 

1  Oh,  nothing,  nothing  !  he  slipped  down — has 
broken  or  sprained  his  ankle — that's  all.  Why  aren't 
you  dancing?  Greatest  fun  in  the  world — just 
beginning  to  get  noisy — and  we  are  going  it.  Come 
on,  Fred  ;  come  on  !' 

To  the  rowdy  tune  of  the  Posthorn  Polka  the 
different  couples  were  dashing  to  and  fro — all  a  little 
drunk  with  emotion  and  champagne ;  and,  as  if  fas- 
cinated, Alice's  eyes  followed  the  shoulders  of  a  tall, 
florid-faced  man.  Doing  the  deux  temps,  he  traversed 
the  room  in  two  or  three  prodigious  jumps.  His 
partner,  a  tiny  creature,  looked  a  crushed  bird  within 
the  circle  of  his  terrible  arm.  Like  a  collier  labour- 
ing in  a  heavy  sea,  a  county  doctor  lurched  from 
side  to  side,  overpowered  by  the  fattest  of  the  Miss 
Duffys.    A  thin,  trim  youth,  with  bright  eyes  glancing 


100  MUSLIN 

hither  and  thither,  executed  a  complex  step,  and 
glided  with  surprising  dexterity  in  and  out,  and 
through  this  rushing  mad  mass  of  light  toilettes  and 
flying  coat-tails.  Marks,  too,  of  conflict  were  visible. 
Mr.  Ryan  had  lost  some  portion  of  his  garment  in  an 
obscure  misunderstanding  in  the  supper-room.  All 
Mr.  Lynch's  studs  had  gone,  and  his  shirt  was  in 
a  precarious  state  ;  drunken  Sir  Richard  had  not 
been  carried  out  of  the  room  before  strewing  the 
floor  with  his  necktie  and  fragments  of  his  gloves. 
But  these  details  were  forgotten  in  the  excitement. 
The  harper  twanged  still  more  violently  at  his 
strings,  the  fiddler  rasped  out  the  agonizing  tune 
more  screechingly  than  ever ;  and  as  the  delirium  of 
the  dance  fevered  this  horde  of  well-bred  people 
the  desire  to  exercise  their  animal  force  grew 
irresistible,  and  they  charged,  intent  on  each  other's 
overthrow.  In  the  onset,  the  vast  shoulders  and  the 
deux  temps  were  especially  successful.  One  couple 
had  gone  down  splendidly  before  him,  another  had 
fallen  over  the  prostrate  ones  ;  and  in  a  moment,  in 
positions  more  or  less  recumbent,  eight  people  were 
on  the  floor.  Fears  were  expressed  for  the  tight 
dresses,  and  Violet  had  shown  more  of  her  thin 
ankles  than  was  desirable  ;  but  the  climax  was  not 
reached  until  a  young  man,  whose  unsteady  legs 
forbade  him  this  part  of  the  fun,  established  himself 
in  a  safe  corner,  and  commenced  to  push  the  people 
over  as  they  passed  him.  This  was  the  signal  for  the 
flight  of  the  chaperons. 

'  Now  come  along,  Miss  Barton,'  cried  Mrs.  Barton, 
catching  sight  of  Alice ;  '  and  will  you,  Lord  Dun- 
gory,  look  after  Olive  ?' 


MUSLIN  101 

Lord  Rosshill  collected  the  five  Honourable  Miss 
Gores,  the  Miss  Brennans  drew  around  Mrs.  Scully, 
who,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  them,  steered 
her  way. 

And  so  ended,  at  least  so  far  as  they  were  con- 
concerned,  the  ball  given  by  the  spinsters  of  the 
county  of  Gal  way.  But  the  real  end  ?  On  this  sub- 
ject much  curiosity  was  evinced. 

The  secret  was  kept  for  a  time,  but  eventually  the 
story  leaked  out  that,  overcome  by  the  recollections 
of  still  pleasanter  evenings  spent  under  the  hospit- 
able roof  of  the  Mayo  bachelor,  Mr.  Ryan,  Mr.  Lynch 
and  Sir  Charles  had  brought  in  the  maid-servants, 
and  that,  with  jigs  for  waltzes,  and  whiskey  for 
champagne,  the  gaiety  had  not  been  allowed  to  die 
until  the  day  was  well  begun.  Bit  by  bit  and  frag- 
ment by  fragment  the  story  was  pieced  together, 
and,  in  the  secrecy  of  their  bedrooms,  with  little 
smothered  fits  of  laughter,  the  young  ladies  told 
each  other  how  Sir  Charles  had  danced  with  the  big 
housemaid,  how  every  time  he  did  the  cross-over  he 
had  slapped  her  on  the  belly ;  and  then,  with  more 
laughter,  they  related  how  she  had  said :  '  Now 
don't,  Sir  Charles,  I  forbid  you  to  take  such  liberties.' 
And  it  also  became  part  of  the  story  that,  when  they 
were  tired  of  even  such  pleasures  as  these,  the 
gentlemen  had  gone  upstairs  to  where  the  poor  man 
with  the  broken  leg  was  lying,  and  had,  with  whiskey 
and  song,  relieved  his  sufferings  until  the  Galway 
train  rolled  into  Ballinasloe. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBR. 


102  MUSLIN 


XI 


1  Goodness  me !  Alice  ;  how  can  you  remain  up  here 
all  alone,  and  by  that  smouldering  fire  ?  Why  don't 
you  come  downstairs  ?  Papa  says  he  is  quite  satis- 
fied with  the  first  part  of  the  tune,  but  the  second 
won't  come  right ;  and,  as  mamma  had  a  lot  to  say 
to  Lord  Dungory,  I  and  Captain  Hibbert  sat  out  in 
the  passage  together.  He  told  me  he  liked  the  way 
I  arrange  my  hair.  Do  tell  me,  dear,  if  you  think 
it  suits  me  ?' 

f  Very  well,  indeed  ;  but  what  else  did  Captain 
Hibbert  say  to  you  ?' 

'  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something,'  replied  Olive,  sud- 
denly turning  from  the  glass.  '  But  first  promise  not 
to  tell  anyone.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if 
you  did.     You  promise  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  promise.' 

'  If  you  look  as  serious  as  that  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  tell  you.  It  is  very  wicked,  I  know,  but 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  He  put  his  arm  round  my 
waist  and  kissed  me.  Now  don't  scold,  I  won't  be 
scolded,'  the  girl  said,  as  she  watched  the  cloud 
gathering  on  her  sister's  face.  <Oh  !  you  don't  know 
how  angry  I  was.  I  cried,  I  assure  you  I  did,  and 
I  told  him  he  had  disgraced  me.  I  couldn't  say 
more  than  that,  could  I,  now  ?  and  he  promised 
never  to  do  it  again.  It  was  the  first  time  a  man 
ever  kissed  me — I  was  awfully  ashamed.  No  one 
ever  attempted  to  lass  you,  I  suppose  ;  nor  can  I 
fancy  their  trying,  for  your  cross  face  would  soon 
frighten  them ;  but  I  can't  look  serious.' 


MUSLIN  103 

'  And  did  he  ask  you  to  marry  him  ?' 

f  Oh  !  of  course,  but  I  haven't  told  mamma,  for 
she  is  always  talking  to  me  about  Lord  Kilcarney — 
the  little  marquis,  as  she  calls  him  ;  but  I  couldn't 
have  him.  Just  fancy  giving  up  dear  Edward  !  I 
assure  you  I  believe  he  would  kill  himself  if  I  did. 
He  has  often  told  me  I  am  the  only  thing  worth 
living  for.' 

Alice  looked  at  her  beautiful  sister  questioningly, 
her  good  sense  telling  her  that,  if  Olive  was  not 
intended  for  him,  it  was  wrong  to  allow  her  to 
continue  her  flirtation.  But  for  the  moment  the 
consideration  of  her  own  misfortunes  absorbed  her. 
Was  there  nothing  in  life  for  a  girl  but  marriage,  and 
was  marriage  no  more  than  a  sensual  gratification  ; 
did  a  man  seek  nothing  but  a  beautiful  body  that  he 
could  kiss  and  enjoy  ?  Did  a  man's  desires  never 
turn  to  mating  with  one  who  could  sympathize  with 
his  hopes,  comfort  him  in  his  fears,  and  united  by 
that  most  profound  and  penetrating  of  all  unions 
— that  of  the  soul — be  collaborator  in  life's  work  ? 
'  Could  no  man  love  as  she  did  ?'  She  was  ready  to 
allow  that  marriage  owned  a  material  as  well  as  a 
spiritual  aspect,  and  that  neither  could  be  over- 
looked. Some,  therefore,  though  their  souls  were 
as  beautiful  as  the  day,  were,  from  purely  physical 
causes,  incapacitated  from  entering  into  the  marriage 
state.     Cecilia  was  such  a  one. 

'  Now  what  are  you  thinking  about,  Alice  ?' 

'  I  do  not  know,  nothing  in  particular ;  one 
doesn't  know  always  of  what  one  is  thinking !  Tell 
me  what  they  are  saying  downstairs.' 

'  But  I  have  told  you  ;  that  Captain  Hibbert  pre- 


104  MUSLIN 

ferred  my  hair  like  this,  and  I  asked  you  if  you 
thought  he  was  right,  but  you  hardly  looked.' 

'  Yes,  I  did,  Olive ;  I  think  the  fashion  suits 
you.' 

'  You  won't  tell  anybody  that  I  told  you  he  kissed 
me  ?  Oh,  I  had  forgotten  about  Lord  Rosshill ;  he 
has  been  fired  at.  Lord  Dungory  returned  from 
Dublin,  and  he  brought  the  evening  paper  with 
him.     It  is  full  of  bad  news.' 

'  What  news  ?'  Alice  asked,  with  a  view  to  escaping 
from  wearying  questions ;  and  Olive  told  her  a 
bailiff's  house  had  been  broken  into  by  an  armed 
gang.  '  They  dragged  him  out  of  his  bed  and  shot 
him  in  the  legs  before  his  own  door.  And  an  attempt 
has  been  made  to  blow  up  a  landlord's  house  with 
dynamite.  And  in  Queen's  County  shots  have  been 
fired  through  a  dining-room  window — now,  what 
else  ?  I  am  telling  you  a  lot ;  I  don't  often  re- 
member what  is  in  the  paper.  No  end  of  hayricks 
were  burnt  last  week,  and  some  cattle  have  had 
their  tails  cut  off,  and  a  great  many  people  have 
been  beaten.  Lord  Dungory  says  he  doesn't  know 
how  it  will  all  end  unless  the  Government  bring  in 
a  Coercion  Act.     What  do  you  think,  Alice  ?' 

Alice  dropped  some  formal  remarks,  and  Olive 
hoped  that  the  state  of  the  country  would  not  affect 
the  Castle's  season.  She  didn't  know  which  of  the 
St.  Leonard  girls  would  be  married  first.  She 
asked  Alice  to  guess.  Alice  said  she  couldn't  guess, 
and  fell  to  thinking  that  nobody  would  ever  want  to 
marry  her.  It  was  as  if  some  instinct  had  told  her, 
and  she  could  not  drive  the  word  '  celibacy '  out  of 
her  ears.     It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  Jichue  a 


MUSLIN  105 

jamais,  as  that  odious  Lord  Dungory  would  say.  She 
did  not  remember  that  she  had  ever  been  so  un- 
happy before,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
always  be  unhappy,  Jichue  a  jamais. 

But  to  her  surprise  she  awoke  in  a  more  cheerful 
mood,  and  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast  Mr. 
Barton  raised  his  head  from  the  newspaper  and 
asked  her  if  she  had  heard  that  Lord  Rosshill  had 
been  fired  at. 

'  Yes,  father.  Olive  told  me  so  overnight ;'  and 
the  conversation  turned  on  her  headache,  and  then 
on  the  state  of  Ireland. 

Mrs.  Barton  asked  if  this  last  outrage  would  prove 
sufficient  to  force  the  Government  to  pass  a  new 
Coercion  Bill. 

'  I  wish  they  would  put  me  at  the  head  of  an 
army,'  Mr.  Barton  said,  whose  thoughts  had  gone 
back  to  his  picture — Julius  Ccesar  overturning  the 
Altars  of  the  Dniids. 

1  Papa  would  look  fine  leading  the  landlords 
against  the  tenants  dressed  in  Julius  Ca?sar's  big 
red  cloak  !'  cried  Mrs.  Barton,  turning  back  as  she 
glided  out  of  the  room,  already  deep  in  considera- 
tion of  what  Milord  would  like  to  eat  for  luncheon 
and  the  gown  she  would  wear  that  afternoon.  Mr. 
Barton  threw  the  newspaper  aside  and  returned 
to  his  studio ;  and  in  the  girls'  room  Olive  and 
Barnes,  the  bland,  soft  smiling  maid,  began  their 
morning  gossip.  Whatever  subject  was  started  it 
generally  wound  round  to  Captain  Hibbert.  Alice 
had  wearied  of  his  name,  but  this  morning  she 
pricked  up  her  ears.  She  was  surprised  to  hear  her 
sister  say  she  had  forbidden  him  ever  to  visit  the 


106  MUSLIN 

Lawlers.    At  that  moment  the  dull  sound  of  distant 
firing  broke  the  stillness  of  the  snow. 

'  I  took  good  care  to  make  Captain  Hibbert 
promise  not  to  go  to  this  shooting-party  the  last 
time  I  saw  him.' 

'  And  what  harm  was  there  in  his  going  to  this 
shooting-party  ?'  said  Alice. 

'  What  harm  ?  I  suppose,  miss,  you  have  heard 
what  kind  of  woman  Mrs.  Lawler  is  ?     Ask  Barnes.' 

'  You  shouldn't  talk  in  this  way,  Olive.  We  know 
well  enough  that  Mrs.  Lawler  was  not  a  lady  before 
she  married ;  but  nothing  can  be  said  against  her 
since.' 

f  Oh  !  can't  there,  indeed  ?  You  never  heard  the 
story  about  her  and  her  steward  ?     Ask  Barnes.' 

'  Oh  !  don't  miss  ;  you  shouldn't  really  !'  said  the 
maid.      '  What  will  Miss  Alice  think  ?' 

'  Never  mind  what  she  thinks ;  you  tell  her  about 
the  steward  and  all  the  officers  from  Gort.' 

And  then  Mrs.  Lawler's  flirtations  were  talked  of 
until  the  bell  rang  for  lunch.  Milord  and  Mrs. 
Barton  had  just  passed  into  the  dining-room,  and 
Alice  noticed  that  his  eyes  often  wandered  in  the 
direction  of  the  policemen  walking  up  and  down 
the  terrace.  He  returned  more  frequently  than  was 
necessary  to  the  attempt  made  on  Lord  Rosshill's 
life,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  Mrs.  Barton  could 
persuade  him  to  drop  a  French  epigram.  At  last, 
in  answer  to  her  allusions  to  knights  of  old  and 
la  galanterie,  the  old  lord  could  only  say :  '  L  'amour 
est  comme  I'hirondelle  ;  quand  I'heure  sonne,  en  dtpit  du 
danger,  tous  les  deux  partent  pour  les  rivages  c&lestes' 
A  pretty  conceit ;  but  Milord  was  not  en  veine  that 


MUSLIN  107 

morning.  The  Land  League  had  thrown  its  shadow 
over  him,  and  it  mattered  little  how  joyously  a 
conversation  might  begin,  too  soon  a  reference  was 
made  to  Griffith's  valuation,  or  the  possibility  of 
a  new  Coercion  Act. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  however,  much  to 
the  astonishment  of  Milord  and  Mrs.  Barton  in  the 
drawing-room  and  the  young  ladies  who  were  sitting 
upstairs  doing  a  little  needlework,  a  large  family 
carriage,  hung  with  grey  trappings  and  drawn  by 
two  powerful  bay  horses,  drove  up  to  the  hall-door. 

A  gorgeous  footman  opened  the  door,  and,  with  a 
momentary  display  of  exquisite  ankle,  a  slim  young 
girl  stepped  out. 

( I  wonder,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  '  that  Mrs.  Scully 
condescends  to  come  out  with  anything  less  than 
four  horses  and  outriders.' 

'  Elle  vent  acheter  la  distinction  comme  ellc  vendait  dn 
jambon — a  faux  poids,'  said  Lord  Dungory. 

'  Yes,  indeed ;  and  to  think  that  the  woman  we 
now  receive  as  an  equal  once  sold  bacon  and  eggs 
behind  a  counter  in  Galway  !' 

c  No,  it  was  not  she  ;  it  was  her  mother.' 

'  Well,  she  was  hanging  on  to  her  mother's  apron- 
strings  at  the  time.  You  may  depend  upon  it,  this 
visit  is  not  for  nothing ;  something's  in  the  wind.' 

A  moment  after,  looking  more  large  and  stately 
than  ever,  Mrs.  Scully  sailed  into  the  room.  Mrs. 
Barton  was  delighted  to  see  her.  It  was  so  good 
of  her  to  come,  and  in  such  weather  as  this ;  and, 
after  having  refused  lunch  and  referred  to  the  snow 
and  the  horses'  feet,  Mrs.  Scully  consented  to  lay 
aside  her  muff  and  boa.    The  young  ladies  withdrew, 


108  MUSLIN 

when  the  conversation  turned  on  the  state  of  the 
county  and  Lord  Rosshill's  fortunate  escape.  As 
they  ascended  the  stairs  they  stopped  to  listen  to 
Mr.  Barton,  who  was  singing  A  che  la  niorte. 

'The  Land  League  doesn't  seem  to  affect  Mr. 
Barton's  spirits/  said  Violet.  '  What  a  beautiful 
voice  he  has !' 

1  Yes,  and  nobody  designs  pictures  like  papa  ;  but 
he  wouldn't  study  when  he  was  young,  and  he  says 
he  hasn't  time  now  on  account  of ' 

'  Now,  Alice,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  begin.  I 
am  sick  of  that  Land  League.  From  morning  till 
night  it  is  nothing  but  coercion  and  Griffith's 
valuation.' 

Violet  and  Alice  laughed  at  Olive's  petulance,  and, 
opening  a  door,  the  latter  said  : 

'  This  is  our  room,  and  it  is  the  only  one  in  the 
house  where  tenants,  land,  and  rent  are  never 
spoken  of.' 

e  That's  something  to  know,'  said  Violet.  c  I  agree 
with  Olive.  If  things  are  bad,  talking  of  them  won't 
make  them  any  better.' 

Barnes  rose  from  her  seat. 

c  Now  don't  go,  Barnes.  Violet,  this  is  Barnes, 
our  maid.' 

There  was  about  Barnes  a  false  air  of  homeliness  ; 
but  in  a  few  moments  it  became  apparent  that  her 
life  had  been  spent  amid  muslins,  confidences,  and 
illicit  conversations.  Now,  with  motherly  care  she 
removed  a  tulle  skirt  from  the  table,  and  Violet, 
with  quick,  nervous  glances,  examined  the  room. 
In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  the  large  work- 
table,  covered  with  a  red  cloth.     There  was  a  stand 


MUSLIN  109 

with  shelves,  filled  on  one  side  with  railway  novels, 
on  the  other  with  worsted  work,  cardboard-boxes, 
and  rags  of  all  kinds.  A  canary-cage  stood  on  the 
top,  and  the  conversation  was  frequently  interrupted 
by  the  piercing  trilling  of  the  little  yellow  bird. 

'  You're  very  comfortable.  I  should  like  to  come 
and  work  here  with  you.  I  am  sick  of  Fred's  per- 
petual talk  about  horses ;  and  if  he  isn't  talking  of 
them  his  conversation  is  so  improper  that  I  can't 
listen  to  it.' 

'  Why,  what  does  he  say  ?'  said  Olive,  glancing  at 
Barnes,  who  smiled  benignly  in  the  background. 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  repeat  what  he  says  !  it's  too 
dreadful.  I  have  to  fly  from  him.  But  he's  always 
at  the  Goulds'  now ;  he  and  May  are  having  a  great 
"case."' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  know  ! '  said  Olive  ;  '  they  never  left 
each  other  at  our  ball.     Don't  you  remember  ?' 

e  Of  course  I  do.  And  what  a  jolly  ball  that  was  ! 
I  never  amused  myself  so  much  in  my  life.  If  the 
balls  at  the  Castle  are  as  good,  they  will  do.  But 
wasn't  it  sad,  you  know,  about  poor  Lord  Kilcarney 
receiving  the  news  of  his  brother's  murder  just  at 
that  moment  ?  I  can  see  him  now,  rushing  out  of 
the  room.' 

Violet's  manner  did  not  betoken  in  the  least  that 
she  thought  it  sad,  and  after  a  pause  she  said : 

'  But  you  haven't  shown  me  your  dresses.  I  loved 
the  one  you  wore  at  the  ball.' 

'  Yes,  yes :  I  must  show  you  my  cream-coloured 
dinner-dress,  and  my  ruby  dress,  too.  You  haven't 
seen  that  either,'  cried  Olive.  '  Come  along,  Barnes, 
come  along. 


110  MUSLIN 

'  But  I  see  you  use  your  bedroom,  too,  as  a  sitting- 
room  ?'  she  said,  as  she  glanced  at  the  illustrations 
in  a  volume  of  Dickens  and  threw  down  a  volume 
of  Shelley's  poetry. 

fOh,  that's  this  lady,  here!'  cried  Olive.  '  She 
says  she  cannot  read  in  our  room  on  account  of  my 
chattering,  so  she  comes  in  here  to  continue  her 
schooling.  I  should  've  thought  that  she  had  had 
enough  of  it ;  and  she  makes  the  place  in  such  a 
mess  with  bits  of  paper.  Barnes  is  always  tidying 
up  after  her.' 

Alice  laughed  constrainedly,  and  taking  the 
cream-coloured  dress  out  of  the  maid's  hands,  Olive 
explained  why  it  suited  her.  Violet  had  much  to 
say  concerning  the  pink  trimming,  and  the  maid 
referred  to  her  late  mistress's  wardrobes.  The  ruby 
dress,  however,  drew  forth  many  little  cries  of  ad- 
miration. Then  an  argument  was  started  concerning 
the  colour  of  hair,  and,  before  the  glass  with  hair- 
pins and  lithe  movements  of  the  back  and  loins,  the 
girls  explained  their  favourite  coiffures. 

'  But,  Alice,  you  haven't  opened  your  lips,  and 
you  haven't  shown  me  your  dresses.' 

'  Barnes  will  show  you  my  dinner-frocks,  but  I 
don't  think  as  much  about  what  I  wear  as  Olive 
does.' 

Violet  quickly  understood,  but,  with  clever  dis- 
simulation, she  examined  and  praised  the  black  silk 
trimmed  with  red  ribbons.  '  She's  angry  because 
we  didn't  look  at  her  dresses  first,'  Olive  interjected; 
and  Violet  came  to  Alice's  rescue  with  a  question : 
'  Had  they  heard  lately  of  Lord  Kilcarney  ?'  Olive 
protested   that  she  would    sooner  die   than  accept 


MUSLIN  111 

such  a  little  red-haired  thing  as  that  for  a  husband, 
and  Violet  laughed  delightedly. 

'Anyway,  you  haven't  those  faults  to  find  with  a 
certain  officer,  now  stationed  at  Gort,  who,  if  report 
speaks  truly,  is  constantly  seen  riding  towards 
Brookfield.' 

'Well,  what  harm  is  there  in  that?'  said  Olive, 
for  she  did  not  feel  quite  sure  in  her  mind  if  she 
should  resent  or  accept  the  gracious  insinuation. 

'  None  whatever ;  I  only  wish  such  luck  were 
mine.  What  with  the  weather,  and  papa's  difficulties 
with  his  herdsmen  and  his  tenants,  we  haven't  seen 
a  soul  for  the  last  month.  I  wish  a  handsome  young 
officer  would  come  galloping  up  our  avenue  some 
day.' 

Deceived,  Olive  abandoned  herself  to  the  plausive 
charm  of  Violet's  manner,  and  at  different  times  she 
spoke  of  her  flirtation,  and  told  many  little  incidents 
concerning  it — what  he  had  said  to  her,  how  she 
had  answered  him,  and  how,  the  last  time  they  had 
met,  he  had  expressed  his  sorrow  at  being  unable  to 
call  to  see  her  until  the  end  of  the  week. 

'  He  is  shooting  to-day  at  the  Lawlers','  said 
Violet. 

'  That  I'm  sure  he's  not,'  said  Olive,  with  a  tri- 
umphant toss  of  her  fair  head ;  '  for  I  forbade  him 
to  go  there.' 

Violet  smiled,  and  Olive  insisted  on  an  explana- 
tion being  given. 

1  Well,'  exclaimed  the  girl,  more  bluntly  than  she 
had  yet  spoken,  '  because  as  we  were  coming  here 
we  saw  him  walking  along  one  of  the  covers.  There 
were  a  lot  of  gentlemen,  and,  just  fancy,  that  dread- 


112  MUSLIN 

ful  woman,  Mrs.  Lawler,  was  with  them,  marching 
along,  just  like  a  man,  and  a  gun  under  her  arm.' 

'  I  don't  believe  you ;  you  only  say  that  to  annoy 
me,'  cried  Olive,  trembling  with  passion. 

f  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  lies,  and  don't 
know  why  you  should  think  I  care  to  annoy  you,' 
Violet  replied,  a  little  too  definitely ;  and,  unable  to 
control  her  feelings  any  longer,  Olive  walked  out 
of  the  room.  Barnes  folded  up  and  put  away  the 
dresses,  and  Alice  sought  for  words  that  would 
attenuate  the  unpleasantness  of  the  scene.  But 
Violet  was  the  quicker  with  her  tongue,  and  she 
poured  out  her  excuses.  '  I  am  so  sorry,'  she  said, 
'  but  how  could  I  know  that  she  objected  to  Captain 
Hibbert's  shooting  at  the  Lawlers',  or  that  he  had 
promised  her  not  to  go  there  ?  I  am  very  sorry, 
indeed.' 

'  Oh  !  it  doesn't  matter/  said  Alice  hesitatingly. 
'  You  know  how  excitable  Olive  is.  I  don't  think 
she  cares  more  about  Captain  Hibbert  than  anyone 
else ;  she  was  only  a  little  piqued,  you  know — the 
surprise,  and  she  particularly  dislikes  the  Lawlers. 
Of  course,  it  is  very  unpleasant  for  us  to  live  so  near 
without  being  able  to  visit  them.' 

'  Yes,  I  understand.  I  am  very  sorry.  Do  you 
know  where  she  is  gone  ?  I  shouldn't  like  to  go 
away  without  seeing  her.' 

1  I  am  afraid  she  has  shut  herself  up  in  her 
room.  Next  time  you  meet,  she'll  have  forgotten 
all  about  it.' 

Elated,  but  at  the  same  time  a  little  vexed,  Violet 
followed  Alice  down  to  the  drawing-room. 

'  My  dear  child,  what  a  time  you  have  been !     I 


MUSLIN  US 

thought  you  were  never  coming  downstairs  again/ 
said  Mrs.  Scully.  '  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barton,  we 
really  must.  We  shall  meet  again,  if  not  before,  at 
the  Castle.' 

Then  stout  mother  and  thin  daughter  took  their 
leave ;  but  the  large  carriage,  with  its  sumptuous 
grey  trappings,  had  not  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill 
when,  swiftly  unlocking  her  door,  Olive  rushed  to 
Barnes  for  sympathy. 

'  Oh  the  spiteful  little  cat !'  she  exclaimed.  '  I 
know  why  she  said  that ;  she's  jealous  of  me.  You 
heard  her  say  she  hadn't  a  lover.  I  don't  believe 
she  saw  Edward  at  all,  but  she  wanted  to  annoy  me. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Barnes  ?' 

'  I'm  sure  she  wanted  to  annoy  you,  miss.  I  could 
see  it  in  her  eyes.  She  has  dreadful  eyes — those 
cold,  grey,  glittering  things.  I  could  never  trust 
them.  And  she  hasn't  a  bit  on  her  bones.  I  don't 
know  if  you  noticed,  miss,  that  when  you  were 
counting  your  petticoats  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
legs  ?  There  isn't  a  bit  on  them ;  and  I  saw  her 
look  at  yours,  miss.' 

'  Did  you  really  ?  She's  like  a  rail ;  and  as  spiteful 
as  she's  lean.  At  school  nothing  made  her  so  angry 
as  when  anyone  else  was  praised ;  and  you  may  be 
sure  that  jealousy  brought  her  here.  She  heard 
how  Captain  Hibbert  admired  me,  and  so  came  on 
purpose  to  annoy  me.' 

'  You  may  be  sure  it  was  that,  miss,'  said  Barnes, 
as  she  bustled  about,  shutting  and  opening  a  variety 
of  cardboard  boxes. 

For  a  moment  the  quarrel  looked  as  if  it  were 
going  to   end  here ;    but  in  Olive's  brain  thoughts 

H 


114  MUSLIN 

leaped  as  quickly  back  as  forward,  and  she  startled 
Barnes  by  declaring  wildly  that,  if  Edward  had 
broken  his  promise  to  her,  she  would  never  speak 
to  him  again. 

{ I  don't  believe  that  Violet  would  have  dared  to 
say  that  she  saw  him  if  it  weren't  true.' 

'  Well,  miss,  a  shooting-party's  but  a  shooting- 
party,  and  there  was  a  temptation,  you  know.  A 
gentleman  who  is  fond  of  sport ' 

'  Yes ;  but  it  isn't  for  the  shooting  he  is  gone. 
'Tis  for  Mrs.  Lawler.      I  know  it  is.' 

'  Not  it,  miss.  Always  admitting  that  he  is  there, 
how  could  he  think  of  Mrs.  Lawler  when  he's  always 
thinking  of  you  ?  And,  besides,  out  in  the  snow,  too. 
Now,  I  wouldn't  say  anything  if  the  weather  was 
fine — like  we  had  last  June — and  they  giving  each 
other  meetings  out  in  the  park ' 

'  But  what  did  you  tell  me  about  the  steward,  and 
how  Mrs.  Lawler  fell  in  love  with  all  the  young  men 
who  come  to  her  house  ?  And  what  did  the  house- 
maid tell  you  of  the  walking  about  the  passages  at 
night  and  into  each  other's  rooms  ?  Oh,  I  must 
know  if  he's  there  !' 

'  I'll  find  out  in  the  morning,  miss.  The  coachman 
is  sure  to  know  who  was  at  the  shooting-party.' 

'  In  the  morning !  It  will  be  too  late  then  !  I 
must  know  this  evening !'  exclaimed  Olive,  as  she 
walked  about  the  room,  her  light  brain  now  flown 
with  jealousy  and  suspicion.  'I'll  write  him  a  letter,' 
she  said  suddenly,  fand  you  must  get  someone  to 
take  it  over.' 

'  But  there's  nobody  about.  Why,  it  is  nearly 
seven  o'clock,'  said  Barnes,  who  had  begun  to  realize 


MUSLIN  11.5 

the  disagreeableness  and  danger  of  the  adventure 
she  was  being  rapidly  drawn  into. 

'  If  you  can't,  I  shall  go  myself,'  cried  Olive,  as 
she  seized  some  paper  and  a  pencil  belonging  to 
Alice,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  note : 

'  Dear  Captain  Hibbert, 

'  If  you  have  broken  your  promise  to  me 
about  not  going  to  the  Lawlers'  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  forgive  you  !'  (Then,  as  through  her  per- 
turbed mind  the  thought  gleamed  that  this  was 
perhaps  a  little  definite,  she  added)  :  '  Anyhow,  I 
wish  to  see  you.  Come  at  once,  and  explain  that 
what  I  have  heard  about  you  is  not  true.  I  cannot 
believe  it. 

'  Yours  ever  and  anxiously, 

1  Olive  Barton.' 

'  Now  somebody  must  take  this  over  at  once  to 
the  Lawlers.' 

'  But,  miss,  really  at  this  hour  of  night,  too,  I  don't 
know  of  anyone  to  send !  Just  think,  miss,  what 
would  your  ma  say  ?' 

'  I  don't  care  what  mamma  says.  It  would  kill  me 
to  wait  till  nioming !  Somebody  must  go.  Why 
can't  you  go  yourself?  It  isn't  more  than  half  a 
mile  across  the  fields.  You  won't  refuse  me,  will 
you  ?     Put  on  your  hat,  and  go  at  once.' 

'  And  what  will  the  Lawlers  say  when  they  hear 
of  it,  miss  ?  and  I  am  sure  that  if  Mrs.  Barton  ever 
hears  of  it  she  will ' 

'  No,  no,  she  won't !  for  I  could  not  do  without 
you,    Barnes.      You   have    only    to    ask    if    Captain 


116  MUSLIN 

Hibbert  is  there,  and,  if  he  is  there,  send  the  letter 
up,  and  wait  for  an  answer.  Now,  there's  a  dear  ! 
now  do  go  at  once.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 
Now,  say  you  will  go,  or  give  me  the  letter.  Yes, 
give  it  to  me,  and  I'll  go  myself.  Yes,  I  prefer  to 
go  myself.' 


XII 

The  result  of  this  missive  was  that  next  morning 
the  servants  whispered  that  someone  had  been  about 
the  house  on  the  preceding  evening.  Olive  and 
Barnes  sat  talking  for  hours ;  and  one  day,  unable 
to  keep  her  counsel  any  longer,  Olive  told  her 
sister  what  had  happened.  The  letter  that  Barnes 
had  taken  across  the  field  for  her  had,  she  declared, 
frightened  Edward  out  of  his  senses  ;  he  had  come 
rushing  through  the  snow,  and  had  spoken  with 
her  for  full  five  minutes  under  her  window.  He 
loved  her  to  distraction ;  and  the  next  day  she  had 
received  a  long  letter,  full  of  references  to  his 
colonel,  explaining  how  entirely  against  his  will  and 
desire  he  had  been  forced  to  accept  the  invitation  to 
go  and  shoot  at  the  Lawlers'.  Alice  listened  quietly; 
as  if  she  doubted  whether  Captain  Hibbert  would 
have  died  of  consumption  or  heartache  if  Olive  had 
acted  otherwise,  and  then  advised  her  sister  quietly  ; 
and,  convinced  that  her  duty  was  to  tell  her  mother 
everything,  she  waited  for  an  occasion  to  speak. 
Mr.  Barton  was  passing  down  the  passage  to  his 
studio,  Olive  was  racing  upstairs  to  Barnes,  Mrs. 
Barton  had  her  hand    on    the  drawing-room  door  ; 


MUSLIN  117 

and  she  looked  round  surprised  when  she  saw  that 
her  daughter  was  following  her. 

'  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  mamma.' 

'  Come  in,  dear.' 

Alice  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

'  How  bare  and  untidy  the  room  looks  at  this 
season  of  the  year  ;  really  you  and  Olive  ought  to 
go  into  the  conservatory  and  see  if  you  can't  get 
some  geraniums.' 

'  Yes,  mamma,  I  will  presently ;  but  it  was  about 
Olive  that  I  wanted  to  speak,'  said  Alice,  in  a 
strained  and  anxious  way. 

(  What  a  bore  that  girl  is  with  her  serious  face,' 
thought  Mrs.  Barton ;  but  she  laughed  coaxingly, 
and  said  : 

c  And  what  has  my  grave-faced  daughter  to  say — 
the  learned  keeper  of  the  family's  wisdom  ?' 

Even  more  than  Olive's  —  for  they  were  less 
sincere — Mrs.  Barton's  trivialities  jarred,  and  Alice's 
ideas  had  already  begun  to  slip  from  her,  and  feeling 
keenly  the  inadequacy  of  her  words,  she  said  : 

c  Well,  mamma,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  Olive  is 
going  to  marry  Captain  Hibbert  ?' 

It  was  now  for  Mrs.  Barton  to  look  embarrassed, 

'  Well,  really,  I  don't  know  ;  nothing  is  arranged — 
I  never  thought  about  the  matter.  What  could  have 
made  you  think  she  was  going  to  marry  Captain 
Hibbert  ?  In  my  opinion  they  aren't  at  all  suited 
to  each  other.     Why  do  you  ask  me  ?' 

'  Because  I  have  heard  you  speak  of  Lord  Kilcarney 
as  a  man  you  would  like  Olive  to  marry,  and,  if  this 
be  so,  I  thought  I  had  better  tell  you  about  Captain 
Hibbert.     I  think  she  is  very  much  in  love  with  him.' 


118  MUSLIN 

*  Oh  !  nonsense  ;  it  is  only  to  kill  time.  A  girl 
must  amuse  herself  somehow.' 

It  was  on  Alice's  lips  to  ask  her  mother  if  she 
thought  such  conduct  quite  right,  but,  checking  her- 
self, she  said  : 

'  I  am  afraid  people  are  talking  about  it,  and  that 
surely  is  not  desirable.' 

'  But  why  do  you  come  telling  me  these  stories  ?' 
she  said. 

'  Why,  mamma,  because  I  thought  it  right  to 
do  so.' 

The  word  '  right '  was  unpleasant ;  but,  recovering 
her  temper,  which  for  years  before  had  never  failed 
her,  Mrs.  Barton  returned  to  her  sweet  little  flatter- 
ing manners. 

'  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  girl  ;  but  you  do 
not  understand  me.  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  Have 
you  any  definite  reason  for  supposing  that  Olive  is 
in  love  Mrith  Captain  Hibbert,  and  that  people  are 
talking  about  it  ?' 

'  I  think  so,  mamma,'  said  the  girl,  deceived  by 
this  expression  of  goodwill.  '  You  remember  when 
the  Scullys  came  here  ?  Well,  Violet  was  up  in  our 
room,  and  we  were  showing  her  our  dresses ;  the 
conversation  somehow  turned  on  Captain  Hibbert, 
and  when  Violet  said  that  she  had  seen  him  that 
day,  as  they  came  along  in  the  carriage,  shooting 
with  the  Lawlers,  Olive  burst  out  crying  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room.  It  was  very  awkward.  Violet  said 
she  was  very  sorry  and  all  that,  but ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  dear ;  but  why  was  Olive  angry  at 
hearing  that  Captain  Hibbert  went  out  shooting 
with  the  Lawlers  ?' 


MUSLIN  11  J) 

'  Because,  it  appears,  she  had  previously  forbidden 
him  to  go  there,  you  know,  on  account  of  Mrs. 
Lawler.' 

'  And  what  happened  then  ?' 

'  Well,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  it  was  all  Olive's  fault ;  I  think  she  must  have 
lost  her  head  a  little,  for  she  sent  Barnes  over  that 
evening  to  the  Lawlers'  with  a  note,  telling  Captain 
Hibbert  that  he  must  come  at  once  and  explain.  It 
was  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  and  they  had  a  long 
talk  through  the  window.' 

Mrs.  Barton  did  not  speak  for  some  moments. 
The  peat-fire  was  falling  into  masses  of  white  ash, 
and  she  thought  vaguely  of  putting  on  some  more 
turf;  then  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  wither- 
ing ferns  in  the  flower-glasses,  then  by  the  soaking 
pasture-lands,  then  by  the  spiky  branches  of  the 
chestnut-trees  swinging  against  the  grey,  dead  sky. 

'  But  tell  me,  Alice,'  she  said  at  last,  '  for  of 
course  it  is  important  that  I  should  know — do  you 
think  that  Olive  is  really  in  love  Captain  Hibbert  ?' 

"  She  told  me,  as  we  were  going  to  bed  the  other 
night,  mamma,  that  she  never  could  care  for  anyone 

else  ;  and — and ' 

1  And  what,  dear  ?' 

'  I  don't  like  to  betray  my  sister's  confidence,' 
Alice  answered,  '  but  I'm  sure  I  had  better  tell  you 
all :  she  told  me  that  he  had  kissed  her  many  times, 
and  no  later  than  yesterday,  in  the  conservatory.' 

'  Indeed !  you  did  very  well  to  let  me  know  of 
this,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  becoming  as  earnestly  in- 
clined as  her  daughter  Alice.  '  I  am  sorry  that 
Olive  was  so  foolish ;  I  must  speak  to  her  about  it. 


120  MUSLIN 

This  must  not  occur  again.  I  think  that  if  you  were 
to  tell  her  to  come  down  here ' 

'  Oh  no,  mamma  ;  Olive  would  know  at  once  that 
I  had  been  speaking  about  her  affairs ;  you  must 
promise  me  to  make  only  an  indirect  use  of  what  I 
have  told  you.' 

'  Of  course — of  course,  my  dear  Alice ;  no  one 
shall  ever  know  what  has  passed  between  us.  You 
can  depend  upon  me.  I  will  not  speak  to  Olive  till 
I  get  a  favourable  opportunity.  And  now  I  have  to 
go  and  see  after  the  servants.  Are  you  going  up- 
stairs ?' 

On  Alice,  tense  with  the  importance  of  the  ex- 
planation, this  dismissal  fell  not  a  little  chillingly ; 
but  she  was  glad  that  she  had  been  able  to  induce 
her  mother  to  consider  the  matter  seriously. 

A  few  minutes  passed  dreamily,  almost  uncon- 
sciously ;  Mrs.  Barton  threw  two  sods  of  turf  on  the 
fire,  and  resumed  her  thinking.  Her  first  feeling  of 
resentment  against  her  eldest  daughter  had  van- 
ished ;  and  she  now  thought  solely  of  the  difficulty 
she  was  in,  and  how  she  could  best  extricate  herself 
from  it.  '  So  Olive  was  foolish  enough  to  allow 
Captain  Hibbert  to  kiss  her  in  the  conservatory  !' 
Mrs.  Barton  murmured  to  herself.  The  morality  of 
the  question  interested  her  profoundly.  She  had 
never  allowed  anyone  to  kiss  her  before  she  was 
married  ;  and  she  was  full  of  pity  and  presentiment 
for  the  future  of  a  young  girl  who  could  thus  com- 
promise herself.  But  in  Olive's  love  for  Captain 
Hibbert  Mrs.  Barton  was  concerned  only  so  far  as  it 
affected  the  labour  and  time  that  would  have  to  be 
expended   in  persuading    her   to  cease   to   care  for 


MUSLIN  121 

him.  That  this  was  the  right  thing  to  do  Mrs. 
Barton  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  Her  daughter 
was  a  beautiful  girl,  would  probably  be  the  belle  of 
the  season ;  therefore  to  allow  her,  at  nineteen,  to 
marry  a  thousand-a-year  captain  would  be,  Mrs. 
Barton  thought,  to  prove  herself  incapable,  if  not 
criminal,  in  the  performance  of  the  most  important 
duty  of  her  life.  Mrs.  Barton  trembled  when  she 
thought  of  the  sending  of  the  letter :  if  the  story 
were  to  get  wind  in  Dublin,  it  might  wreck  her 
hopes  of  the  marquis.  Therefore,  to  tell  Barnes 
to  leave  the  house  would  be  fatal.  Things  must  be 
managed  gently,  very  gently.  Olive  must  be  talked 
to,  how  far  her  heart  was  engaged  in  the  matter  must 
be  found  out,  and  she  must  be  made  to  see  the 
folly,  the  madness  of  risking  her  chance  of  winning 
a  coronet  for  the  sake  of  a  beggarly  thousand-a- 
year  captain.  And,  good  heavens  !  the  chaperons  : 
what  would  they  say  of  her,  Mrs.  Barton,  were  such 
a  thing  to  occur  ?  Mrs.  Barton  turned  from  the 
thought  in  horror  ;  and  then,  out  of  the  soul  of  the 
old  coquette  arose,  full-fledged,  the  chaperon,  the 
satellite  whose  light  and  glory  is  dependent  on  that 
of  the  fixed  star  around  which  she  revolves. 

At  this  moment  Olive,  her  hands  filled  with  ferns, 
bounced  into  the  room. 

'  Oh  !  here  you  are,  mamma  !  Alice  told  me  you 
wanted  a  few  ferns  and  flowers  to  brighten  up  the 
room.' 

'  I  hope  you  haven't  got  your  feet  wet,  my  dear ; 
if  you  have,  you  had  better  go  up  at  once  and 
change.' 

Olive  was  now  more   than  ever  like  her  father. 


122  MUSLIN 

Her  shoulders  had  grown  wider,  and  the  blonde 
head  and  scarlet  lips  had  gained  a  summer  brilliance 
and  beauty. 

'  No,  I  am  not  wet/  she  said,  looking  down  at  her 
boots ;  '  it  isn't  raining ;  but  if  it  were  Alice  would 
send  me  out  all  the  same.' 

'  Where  is  she  now  ?' 

'  Up  in  her  room  reading,  I  suppose  ;  she  never 
stirs  out  of  it.  I  thought  when  we  came  home  from 
school  the  last  time  that  we  would  be  better  friends  ; 
but,  do  you  know  what  I  think :  Alice  is  a  bit  sulky. 
What  do  you  think,  mamma  ?' 

To  talk  of  Alice,  to  suggest  that  she  was  a  little 
jealous,  to  explain  the  difficulty  of  the  position  she 
occupied,  to  commiserate  and  lavish  much  pity  upon 
her  was,  no  doubt,  a  fascinating  subject  of  conver- 
sation, it  had  burned  in  the  brains  of  mother  and 
daughter  for  many  months ;  but,  too  wise  to  com- 
promise herself  with  her  children,  Mrs.  Barton 
resisted  the  temptation  to  gratify  a  vindictiveness 
that  rankled  in  her  heart.     She  said  : 

'  Alice  has  not  yet  found  her  beau  cavalier ;  we 
shall  see  when  we  are  at  the  Castle  if  she  will 
remain  faithful  to  her  books.  I  am  afraid  that  Miss 
Alice  will  then  prefer  some  gay,  dashing  young 
officer  to  her  Marmion  and  her  Lara.' 

'  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  She  says  that  the 
only  man  she  cares  to  speak  to  in  the  county  is 
Dr.  Reed,  that  little  frumpy  fellow  with  his  medi- 
cines. I  can't  understand  her.  I  couldn't  care  for 
anyone  but  an  officer.' 

This  was  the  chance  Mrs.  Barton  required,  and 
she  instantly  availed  herself  of  it.     'The  red-coat 


MUSLIN  123 

fever !'  she  exclaimed,  waving  her  hands.     '  There 
is  no  one  like  officers  pour  f aire  passer  le  temps' 

*  Yes,  ma !'  cried  Olive,  proud  of  having  under- 
stood so  much  French  ;  *  doesn't  time  pass  quickly 
with  them  ?' 

'  It  flies,  my  dear,  and  they  fly  away,  and  then  we 
take  up  with  another.  They  are  all  nice ;  their 
profession  makes  them  that.' 

'  But  some  are  nicer  than  others  ;  for  instance,  I  am 
sure  they  are  not  all  as  handsome  as  Captain  Hibbert.' 
'Oh!  indeed  they  are,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  laugh- 
ing ;  ' wait  until  we  get  to  Dublin ;  you  have  no 
idea  what  charming  men  we  shall  meet  there.  We 
shall  find  a  lord  or  an  earl,  or  perhaps  a  marquis, 
who  will  give  a  coroneted  carriage  to  my  beautiful 
girl  to  drive  in.' 

Olive  tossed  her  head,  and  her  mother  looked  at 
her  admiringly,  and  there  was  love  in  the  sweet 
brown  deceit  of  the  melting  eyes  ;  a  hard,  worldly 
affection,  but  a  much  warmer  one  than  any  Mrs. 
Barton  could  feel  for  Alice,  in  whom  she  saw  nothing 
but  failure,  and  in  the  end  spiritual  spinsterhood. 
After  a  pause  she  said  : 

'What  a  splendid  match  Lord  Kilcarney  would 
be,  and  where  would  he  find  a  girl  like  my  Olive  to 
do  the  honours  of  his  house  ?' 

*  Oh  !  mamma,  I  never  could  marry  him  !' 
'  And  why  not,  my  dear  girl  ?' 
'  I  don't  know,  he's  a  silly  little  fool ;  besides,  I 
like  Captain  Hibbert.' 

'  Yes,  you  like  Captain  Hibbert,  so  do  I ;  but  a 
girl  like  you  could  not  throw  herself  away  on  a 
thousand-a-year  captain  in  the  army.' 


124  MUSLIN 

'  And  why  not,  mamma  ?'  said  Olive,  who  had 
already  begun  to  whimper  ;  '  Captain  Hibbert  loves 
me,  I  know,  very  dearly,  and  I  like  him ;  he  is  of 
very  good  family,  and  he  has  enough  to  support  me.' 

The  moment  was  a  supreme  one,  and  Mrs.  Barton 
hesitated  to  strike  and  bring  the  matter  to  a  head. 
Would  it  be  better,  she  asked  herself,  to  let  things 
go  by  and  use  her  influence  for  the  future  in  one 
direction  ?  After  a  brief  pause  she  decided  on  the 
former  course.     She  said  : 

'  My  dear  child,  neither  your  father  nor  myself 
could  ever  consent  to  see  you  throw  yourself  away 
on  Captain  Hibbert.  I  am  afraid  you  have  seen  too 
much  of  him,  and  have  been  led  away  into  caring 
for  him.  But  take  my  word  for  it,  a  girl's  love  is 
only  ajieur  de  peau.  When  you  have  been  to  a  few 
of  the  Castle  balls  you'll  soon  forget  all  about  him. 
Remember,  you  are  not  twenty  yet ;  it  would  be 
madness.' 

'  Oh  !  mamma,  I  didn't  think  you  were  so  cruel !' 
exclaimed  Olive,  and  she  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Barton  made  no  reply,  but  her  resolve  was 
rapidly  gaining  strength  in  her  mind  :  Olive's  flirta- 
tion was  to  be  brought  at  once  to  a  close.  Captain 
Hibbert  she  would  admit  no  more,  and  the  girl  was 
in  turn  to  be  wheedled  and  coerced. 

Nor  did  Mrs.  Barton  for  a  moment  doubt  that  she 
would  succeed ;  she  had  never  tasted  failure  ;  and 
she  stayed  only  a  moment  to  regret,  for  she  was  too 
much  a  woman  of  the  world  to  waste  time  in  con- 
sidering her  mistakes.  The  needs  of  the  moment 
were  ever  present  to  her,  and  she  now  devoted 
herself  entirely  to  the  task  of  consoling  her  daughter. 


MUSLIN  125 

Barnes,  too,  was  well  instructed,  and  henceforth  she 
spoke  only  of  the  earls,  dukes,  lords,  and  princes 
who  were  waiting  for  Olive  at  the  Castle. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Barton  called  Olive  into 
the  drawing-room,  where  woman  was  represented 
as  a  triumphant  creature  walking  over  the  heads 
and  hearts  of  men.  '  Le  gdnie  de  la  jemme  est  la 
beaute",'  declared  Milord,  and  again :  '  Le  cceur  de 
Vhomme  ne  peut  servir  que  de  piedestal  pour  I'idole.' 

'  Oh  !  Milord,  Milord  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton.  '  So  in 
worshipping  us  you  are  idolaters.  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.' 

'  Pardon,  pardon,  madame  :  Devant  un  amour  faux 
on  est  idoldtre,  mais  a  I'autel  d'un  vrai,  on  est  chretien.' 

And  in  such  lugubrious  gaiety  the  girl  grieved. 
Captain  Hibbert  had  been  refused  admission ;  he 
had  written,  but  his  letters  had  been  intercepted ; 
and  holding  them  in  her  hand  Mrs.  Barton  explained 
she  could  not  consent  to  such  a  marriage,  and  con- 
tinued to  dazzle  the  girl  with  visions  of  the  honours 
that  awaited  the  future  Marchioness  of  Kilcarney. 
'  An  engaged  girl  is  not  noticed  at  the  Castle.  You 
don't  know  what  nice  men  you'll  meet  there ; 
have  your  fun  out  first,'  were  the  arguments  most 
frequently  put  forward ;  and,  in  the  excitement  of 
breaking  off  Olive's  engagement,  even  the  Land 
League  was  forgotten.  Olive  hesitated,  but  at 
length  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  at  least 
try  to  captivate  the  marquis  before  she  honoured 
the  captain  with  her  hand.  No  sooner  said  than 
done.  Mrs.  Barton  lost  not  a  moment  in  writing  to 
Captain  Hibbert,  asking  him  to  come  and  see  them 
the  following  day,  if  possible,  between  eleven  and 


126  MUSLIN 

twelve.  She  wanted  to  speak  to  him  on  a  matter 
which  had  lately  come  to  her  knowledge,  and  which 
had  occasioned  her  a  good  deal  of  surprise. 


XIII 

Mr.  Barton  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  muscles 
of  the  strained  back  of  a  dying  Briton  and  a  Roman 
soldier  who  cut  the  cords  that  bound  the  white 
captive  to  the  sacrificial  oak  ;  but  it  would  be  no  use 
returning  to  the  studio  until  these  infernal  tenants 
were  settled  with,  and  he  loitered  about  the  drawing- 
room  windows  looking  pale,  picturesque,  and  lym- 
phatic. His  lack  of  interest  in  his  property  irritated 
Mrs.  Barton.  '  Darling,  you  must  try  to  get  them  to 
take  twenty  per  cent.'  At  times  she  strove  to 
prompt  the  arguments  that  should  be  used  to  induce 
the  tenants  to  accept  the  proffered  abatement,  but 
she  could  not  detach  her  thoughts  from  the  terrible 
interview  she  was  about  to  go  through  with  Captain 
Hibbert.  She  expected  him  to  be  violent ;  he  would 
insist  on  seeing  Olive,  and  she  watched  wearily 
the  rain  dripping  from  the  wooden  edges  of  the 
verandah.  The  last  patches  of  snow  melted,  and  at 
last  a  car  was  seen  approaching,  closely  followed  by 
another  bearing  four  policemen. 

'  Here's  your  agent,'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barton  hur- 
riedly. '  Don't  bring  him  in  here ;  go  out  and  meet 
him,  and  when  you  see  Captain  Hibbert  welcome 
him  as  cordially  as  you  can.  But  don't  speak  to 
him  of  Olive,  and  don't  give  him  time  to  speak  to 
you  ;  say  you  are  engaged.     I  don't  want  Mr.  Scully 


MUSLIN  127 

to  know  anything  about  this  break-off.  It  is  most 
unfortunate  you  didn't  tell  me  you  were  going  to 
meet  your  tenants  to-day.  However,  it  is  too  late 
now.' 

'  Very  well,  my  dear,  very  well,'  said  Mr.  Barton, 
trying  to  find  his  hat.  '  I  would,  I  assure  you,  give 
twenty  pounds  to  be  out  of  the  whole  thing.  I 
can't  argue  with  those  fellows  about  their  rents.  I 
think  the  Government  ought  to  let  us  fight  it  out. 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  take  the  command  of  a 
flying  column  of  landlords,  and  make  a  dash  into 
Connemara.  I  have  always  thought  my  military 
genius  more  allied  to  that  of  Napoleon  than  to  that 
of  Wellington.' 

It  was  always  difficult  to  say  how  far  Mr.  Barton 
believed  in  the  extravagant  remarks  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  giving  utterance  to.  He  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  their  absurdity,  without,  however,  relin- 
quishing all  belief  in  their  truth.  And  now,  as  he 
picked  his  way  across  the  wet  stones,  his  pale  hair 
blown  about  in  the  wind,  he  presented  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  short-set  man  who  had  just 
jumped  down  from  the  car,  his  thick  legs  encased  in 
gaiters,  and  a  long  ulster  about  them. 

1  Howd'  yer  do,  Barton  ?'  he  exclaimed.  '  D'yer 
know  that  I  think  things  are  gitting  worse  instid  of 
bither.  There's  been  another  bailiff  shot  in  Mayo, 
and  we've  had  a  process-server  nearly  beaten  to 
death  down  our  side  of  the  counthry.  Gad !  I  was 
out  with  the  Sub-Sheriff  and  fifty  police  thrying  to 
serve  notices  on  Lord  Rosshill's  estate,  and  we  had 
to  come  back  as  we  wint.  Such  blawing  of  horns 
you  niver  heard   in  yer  life.     The  howle  counthry 


128  MUSLIN 

was  up,  and  they  with  a  trench  cut  across  the  road 
as  wide  as  a  canal.' 

'  Well,  what  do  you  think  we  had  better  do  with 
these  fellows  ?  Do  you  think  they  will  take  the 
twenty  per  cent.  ?' 

'  'Tis  impossible  to  say.  Gad  !  the  Lague  is  gittin' 
stronger  ivery  day,  Barton.  But  they  ought  to  take 
it ;  twenty  per  cent,  will  bring  it  very  nearly  to 
Griffith's.' 

f  But  if  they  don't  take  it  ?' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  what  we  will  do,  for  notices 
it  is  impossible  to  serve.  Gad  !  I'll  never  forgit  how 
we  were  pelted  the  other  day — such  firing  of  stones, 
such  blawing  of  horns  !  I  think  you'll  have  to  give 
them  the  thirty;  but  we'll  thry  them  at  twinty-foive.' 

'  And  if  they  won't  take  it ?' 

'  What !  the  thirty  ?  They'll  take  that  and  jump- 
ing, you  needn't  fear.     Here  they  come.' 

Turning,  the  two  men  watched  the  twenty  or 
thirty  peasants  who,  with  heads  set  against  the 
gusts,  advanced  steadily  up  the  avenue,  making  way 
for  a  horseman ;  and  from  the  drawing-room  window 
Mrs.  Barton  recognized  the  square-set  shoulders  of 
Captain  Hibbert.  After  shaking  hands  and  speaking 
a  few  words  with  Mr.  Barton,  he  trotted  round  to 
the  stables  ;  and  when  he  walked  back  and  entered 
the  house,  in  all  the  clean-cut  elegance  of  military 
boots  and  trousers,  the  peasants  lifted  their  hats, 
and  the  interview  began. 

'  Now,  boys,'  said  Mr.  Barton,  who  thought  that  a 
little  familiarity  would  not  be  inappropriate,  '  I've 
asked  you  to  meet  me  so  that  we  might  come  to 
some   agreement   about  the   rents.     We've   known 


MUSLIN  129 

each  other  a  long  time,  and  my  family  has  been  on 
this  estate  I  don't  know  for  how  many  generations. 
Therefore — why,  of  course,  I  should  be  very  sorry  if 
we  had  any  falling  out.  I  don't  know  much  about 
farming,  but  I  hear  everyone  say  that  this  has  been 
a  capital  year,  and  ...  I  think  I  cannot  do  better 
than  to  make  you  again  the  same  offer  as  I  made 
you  before — that  is  to  say,  of  twenty  per  cent,  abate- 
ment all  round  ;  that  will  bring  your  rents  down  to 
Griffith's  valuation.' 

Mr.  Barton  had  intended  to  be  very  impressive, 
but,  feeling  that  words  were  betraying  him,  he 
stopped  short,  and  waited  anxiously  to  hear  what 
answer  the  peasant  who  had  stepped  forward  would 
make.  The  old  man  began  by  removing  a  battered 
tall -hit,  out  of  which  fell  a  red  handkerchief.  The 
handkerchief  was  quickly  thrown  back  into  the 
crown,  and,  at  an  intimation  from  Mr.  Barton,  hat 
and  handkerchief  were  replaced  upon  the  white 
head.     He  then  commenced  : 

'  Now,  yer  honour,  the  rints  is  too  high  ;  we  cannot 
pay  the  present  rint,  at  least  without  a  reduction.  I 
have  been  a  tinent  on  the  property,  and  my  fathers 
before  me,  for  the  past  fifty  years.  And  it  was  in 
forty-three  that  the  rints  was  ruz — in  the  time  of 
your  father,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! — but 
he  had  an  agent  who  was  a  hard  man,  and  he  ruz 
the  rints,  and  since  then  we  have  been  in  poverty, 
livin'  on  yaller  mail  and  praties,  and  praties  that  is 
watery  ;  there  is  no  diet  in  them,  yer  honour.  And 
if  yer  honour  will  come  down  and  walk  the  lands 
yerself,  yer  wi'  see  I  am  spaking  the  truth.  We  ask 
nothing  better  than  yer  should  walk  the  lands  yer- 
i 


130  MUSLIN 

self.  There  is  two  acres  of  my  land,  yer  honour, 
flooded  for  three  months  of  the  year,  and  for  that 
land  I  am  paying  twenty-five  shillings  an  acre.  I 
have  my  receipts,  paid  down  to  the  last  gale-day.' 

And,  still  speaking,  the  old  man  fumbled  in  his 
pockets  and  produced  a  large  pile  of  papers,  which 
he  strove  to  push  into  Mr.  Barton's  hand,  alluding 
all  the  while  to  the  losses  he  had  sustained.  Two 
pigs  had  died  on  him,  and  he  had  lost  a  fine  mare 
and  foal.  His  loquacity  was,  however,  cut  short  by 
a  sturdy,  middle-aged  peasant  standing  next  him. 

'  And  I,  too,  yer  honour,  am  payin'  five-and-twenty 
shillin's  for  the  same  flooded  land.  Yer  honour  can 
come  down  any  day  and  see  it.  It  is  not  worth,  to 
me,  more  than  fifteen  shillings  an  acre  at  the  bare 
outside.  But  it  could  be  drained,  for  there  is  a  fall 
into  the  marin  stream  betwixt  your  honour's  prop- 
erty and  the  Miss  Brennans'.  It  wouldn't  cost 
more  than  forty  pound,  and  the  Miss  Brennans  will 
pay  half  if  yer  honour  will  pay  the  other.' 

Mr.  Barton  listened  patiently  to  those  peasant- 
like digressions,  while  Mrs.  Barton  listened  patiently 
to  the  Captain's  fervid  declarations  of  love.  He  had 
begun  by  telling  her  of  the  anguish  it  had  caused 
him  to  have  been  denied,  and  three  times  running, 
admittance  to  Brookfield.  One  whole  night  he  had 
lain  awake  wondering  what  he  had  done  to  offend 
them.  Mrs.  Barton  could  imagine  how  he  had 
suffered,  for  she,  he  ventured  to  say,  must  have 
long  since  guessed  what  were  his  feelings  for  her 
daughter. 

'  We  were  very  sorry  to  have  been  out,  and  it  is 
so  unusual  that  we  should  be/  said  Mrs.   Barton, 


I 


MUSLIN  131 

leaning  forward  her  face  insinuatingly.  '  But  you 
were  speaking  of  Olive.  We  say  here  that  there  is 
no  one  like  le  beau  capitaine,  no  one  so  handsome,  no 

one  so  nice,  no  one  so  gallant,  and — and '  here 

Mrs.  Barton  laughed  merrily,  for  she  thought  the 
bitterness  of  life  might  be  so  cunningly  wrapped  up 
in  sweet  compliments  that  both  could  be  taken 
together,  like  sugared-medicine — in  one  child-like 
gulp.  '  There  is,  of  course,  no  one  I  should  prefer 
to  le  beau  capitaine — there  is  no  one  to  whom  I 
would  confide  my  Olive  more  willingly ;  but,  then> 
one  must  look  to  other  things ;  one  cannot  live 
entirely  on  love,  even  if  it  be  the  love  of  a  beau 
capitaine.' 

Nevertheless,  the  man's  face  darkened.  The  eye- 
brows contracted,  the  straight  white  nose  seemed 
to  grow  straighter,  and  he  twirled  his  moustache 
angrily. 

1 1  am  aware,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barton,  that  I  cannot 
give  your  daughter  the  position  I  should  like  to, 
but  I  am  not  as  poor  as  you  seem  to  imagine. 
Independent  of  my  pay  I  have  a  thousand  a  year ; 
Miss  Barton  has,  if  I  be  not  mistaken,  some  money 
of  her  own ;  and,  as  I  shall  get  my  majority  within 
the  next  five  years,  I  may  say  that  we  shall  begin 
life  upon  something  more  than  fifteen  hundred  a 
year.' 

'  It  is  true  that  I  have  led  you  to  believe  that 
Olive  has  money,  but  Irish  money  can  be  no  longer 
counted  upon.  Were  Mr.  Barton  to  create  a  charge 
on  his  property,  how  would  it  be  possible  for  him  to 
guarantee  the  payment  of  the  interest  in  such  times 
as  the  present  ?     We  are  living  on  the  brink  of  a 


132  MUSLIN 

precipice.  We  do  not  know  what  is,  and  what 
is  not,  our  own.  The  Land  League  is  ruining 
us,  and  the  Government  will  not  put  it  down ; 
this  year  the  tenants  may  pay  at  twenty  per  cent, 
reduction,  but  next  year  they  may  refuse  to  pay 
at  all.  Look  out  there :  you  see  they  are  mak- 
ing their  own  terms  with  Mr.  Barton.' 

1 1  should  be  delighted  to  give  you  thirty  per 
cent,  if  I  could  afford  it,'  said  Mr.  Barton,  as  soon 
as  the  question  of  reduction,  that  had  been  lost 
sight  of  in  schemes  for  draining,  and  discussion  con- 
cerning bad  seasons,  had  been  re-established;  'but 
you  must  remember  that  I  have  to  pay  charges,  and 
my  creditors  won't  wait  any  more  than  yours  will. 
If  you  refuse  to  pay  your  rents  and  I  get  sold  out, 
you  will  have  another  landlord  here  ;  you'll  ruin  me, 
but  you  won't  do  yourselves  any  good.  You  will 
have  some  Englishman  here  who  will  make  you  pay 
your  rents.' 

'  An  Englishman  here !'  exclaimed  a  peasant. 
c  Arrah  !  he'll  go  back  quicker  than  he  came.' 

'  Maybe  he  wouldn't  go  back  at  all,'  cried  another, 
chuckling.  '  We'd  make  an  Oirishman  of  him  for 
ever.' 

'  Begad,  we'd  make  him  wear  the  grane  in  raal 
earnest,  and,  a  foine  scraw  it  would  be,'  said  a 
third. 

The  witticism  was  greeted  with  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  upon  this  expression  of  a  somewhat  verdant 
patriotism  the  dispute  concerning  the  reduction  was 
resumed. 

'  Give  us  the  land  all  round  at  the  Government 
valuation,'  said  a  man  in  the  middle  of  the  group. 


MUSLIN  133 

'  Why,  you  are  only  fifteen  per  cent,  above  the 
valuation/  cried  Mr.  Scully. 

For  a  moment  this  seemed  to  create  a  difference 
of  opinion  among  the  peasants  ;  but  the  League  had 
drawn  them  too  firmly  together  to  be  thus  easily 
divided.  They  talked  amongst  themselves  in  Irish. 
Then  the  old  man  said  : 

'  We  can't  take  less  than  thirty,  yer  honour.  The 
Lague  wouldn't  let  us.' 

'  I  can't  give  you  more  than  twenty.' 

'  Thin  let  us  come  on  home,  thin  ;  no  use  us 
wasting  our  toime  here,'  cried  a  sturdy  peasant, 
who,  although  he  had  spoken  but  seldom,  seemed 
to  exercise  an  authority  over  the  others.  With  one 
accord  they  followed  him  ;  but,  rushing  forward, 
Mr.  Scully  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying : 

'  Nowthen,  boys, come  back,  come  back  ;  he'll  settle 
with  you  right  enough  if  you'll  listen  to  reason.' 

From  the  drawing-room  window  Mrs.  Barton 
watched  the  conflict.  On  one  side  she  saw  her 
daughter's  beautiful  white  face  becoming  the  prize 
of  a  penniless  officer ;  on  the  other  she  saw  the 
pretty  furniture,  the  luxurious  idleness,  the  very 
silk  dress  on  her  back,  being  torn  from  them,  and 
distributed  among  a  crowd  of  Irish-speaking,  pig- 
keeping  peasants.  She  could  see  that  some  new  and 
important  point  was  being  ai'gued  ;  and  it  was  with  a 
wrench  she  detached  her  thoughts  from  the  panto- 
mime that  was  being  enacted  within  her  view,  and, 
turning  to  Captain  Hibbert,  said  : 

'  You  see — you  see  what  is  happening.  We  are — 
that  is  to  say,  we  may  be — ruined  at  any  moment 
by  this   wicked   agitation.     As    I  have  said  before, 


134  MUSLIN 

there  is  no  one  I  should  like  so  much  as  yourself; 
but,  in  the  face  of  such  a  future,  how  could  I  consent 
to  give  you  my  daughter  ? — that  is  to  say,  I  could 
not  unless  you  could  settle  at  least  a  thousand  a 
year  upon  her.  She  has  been  brought  up  in  every 
luxury.' 

1  That  may  be,  Mrs.  Barton.  I  hope  to  give  her 
quite  as  comfortable  a  home  as  any  she  has  been 
accustomed  to.  But  a  thousand  a  year  is  impossible. 
I  haven't  got  it.  But  I  can  settle  five  hundred  on 
her,  and  there's  many  a  peeress  of  the  realm  who 
hasn't  that.  Of  course  five  hundred  a  year  is  very 
little.  No  one  feels  it  more  than  I.  For  had  I 
the  riches  of  the  world,  I  should  not  consider  them 
sufficient  to  create  a  place  worthy  of  Olive's  beauty. 
But  love  must  be  allowed  to  count  for  something, 
and  I  think — yes,  I  can  safely  say — she  will  never 
find ' 

'  Yes,  I  know — I  am  sure  ;  but  it  cannot  be.' 

'  Then  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  sacrifice 
your  daughter's  happiness  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
wretched  pride  ?' 

1  Why  press  the  matter  further  ?  Why  cannot  we 
remain  friends  ?' 

'  Friends  !  Yes,  I  hope  we  shall  remain  friends  ; 
but  I  will  never  consent  to  give  up  Olive.  She  loves 
me.  I  know  she  does.  My  life  is  bound  up  in  hers. 
No,  I'll  never  consent  to  give  her  up,  and  I  know 
she  won't  give  me  up.' 

'  Olive  has  laughed  and  flirted  with  you,  but  it 
was  only  pour  passer  le  temps  ;  and  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  that  you  are  mistaken  when  you  think  that  she 
loves  you.' 


MUSLIN  135 

'  Olive  does  love  me.  I  know  she  does  ;  and  I'll 
not  believe  she  does  not — at  least,  until  she  tells 
me  so.  I  consider  I  am  engaged  to  her ;  and  I  must 
beg  of  you,  Mrs.  Barton,  to  allow  me  to  see  her  and 
hear  from  her  own  lips  what  she  has  to  say  on  this 
matter.' 

With  the  eyes  of  one  about  to  tempt  fortune 
adventurously,  like  one  about  to  play  a  bold  card 
for  a  high  stake,  Mrs.  Barton  looked  on  the  tall, 
handsome  man  before  her ;  and,  impersonal  as  were 
her  feelings,  she  could  not  but  admire,  for  the  space 
of  one  swift  thought,  the  pale  aristocratic  face  now 
alive  with  passion.  Could  she  depend  upon  Olive 
to  say  no  to  him  ?  The  impression  of  the  moment 
was  that  no  girl  would.  Nevertheless,  she  must  risk 
the  interview,  and  gliding  towards  the  door,  she 
called;  and  then,  as  a  cloud  that  grows  bright  in 
the  sudden  sunshine,  the  man's  face  glowed  with 
delight  at  the  name,  and  a  moment  after,  white  and 
drooping  like  a  cut  flower,  the  girl  entered.  Captain 
Hibbert  made  a  movement  as  if  he  were  going  to 
rush  forward  to  meet  her.  She  looked  as  if  she 
would  have  opened  her  arms  to  receive  him,  but 
Mrs.  Barton's  words  fell  between  them  like  a 
sword. 

e  Olive,'  she  said,  '  I  hear  you  are  engaged  to 
Captain  Hibbert !     Is  it  true  ?' 

Startled  in  the  drift  of  her  emotions,  and  believing 
her  confidence  had  been  betrayed,  the  girl's  first 
impulse  was  to  deny  the  impeachment.  No  absolute 
promise  of  marriage  had  she  given  him,  and  she 
said  : 

'  No,  mamma,  I  am  not  engaged.     Did  Edward — 


136  MUSLIN 

1  mean  Captain  Hibbert — say  I  was  engaged  to  him  ? 
I  am  sure ' 

'  Didn't  you  tell  me,  Olive,  that  you  loved  me  better 
than  anyone  else  ?  Didn't  you  even  say  you  could 
never  love  anyone  else  ?    If  I  had  thought  that ' 

'  I  knew  my  daughter  would  not  have  engaged 
herself  to  you,  Captain  Hibbert,  without  telling  me 
of  it.  As  I  have  told  you  before,  we  all  like  you 
very  much,  but  this  marriage  is  impossible ;  and  I 
will  never  consent,  at  least  for  the  present,  to  an 
engagement  between  you.' 

'  Olive,  have  you  nothing  to  say  ?  I  will  not  give 
you  up  unless  you  tell  me  yourself  that  I  must  do  so.' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  what  shall  I  do  ?'  said  Olive,  burst- 
ing into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 

'  Say  what  I  told  you  to  say,'  whispered  Mrs. 
Barton. 

'  You  see,  Edward,  that  mamma  won't  consent,  at 
least  not  for  the  present,  to  our  engagement.' 

This  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Barton's  purpose,  and, 
soothing  her  daughter  with  many  words,  she  led  her 
to  the  door.  Then,  confronting  Captain  Hibbert, 
she  said  : 

'  There  is  never  any  use  in  forcing  on  these  violent 
scenes.  As  I  have  told  you,  there  is  no  one  I  should 
prefer  to  yourself.  We  always  say  here  that  there  is 
no  one  like  le  beau  capitaine  ;  but,  in  the  face  of  these 
bad  times,  how  can  I  give  you  my  daughter  ?  And 
you  soldiers  forget  so  quickly.  In  a  year's  time  you'll 
have  forgotten  all  about  Olive.' 

'  That  isn't  true  ;  I  shall  never  forget  her.  I 
cannot  forget  her  ;  but  I  will  consent  to  wait  if  you 
will  consent  to  our  being  engaged.' 


MUSLIN  137 

'  No,  Captain  Hibbert,  I  think  it  is  better  not.  I 
do  not  approve  of  those  long  engagements.' 

e  Then  you'll  forget  what  has  passed  between  us, 
and  let  us  be  the  same  friends  as  we  were  before  ?' 

1 1  hope  we  shall  always  remain  friends  ;  but  I  do 
not  think,  for  my  daughter's  peace  of  mind,  it  would 
be  advisable  for  us  to  see  as  much  of  each  other  as 
we  have  hitherto  done.  And  I  hope  you  will  promise 
me  not  to  communicate  with  my  Olive  in  any  way.' 

f  Why  should  I  enter  into  promises  with  you, 
Mrs.  Barton,  when  you  decline  to  enter  into  any 
with  me  ?' 

Mrs.  Barton  did  not  look  as  if  she  intended  to 
answer  this  question.  The  conversation  had  fallen, 
and  her  thoughts  had  gone  back  to  the  tenants  and 
the  reduction  that  Mr.  Scully  was  now  persuading 
them  to  accept.  He  talked  apart,  first  with  one, 
then  with  another.  His  square  bluff  figure  in  a  long 
coarse  ulster  stood  out  in  strong  relief  against  the 
green  grass  and  the  evergreens. 

'  Thin  it  is  decided  yer  pay  at  twinty-foive  per 
cint.,'  said  Mr.  Scully. 

'Then,  Captain  Hibbert,'  said  Mrs.  Barton  a  little 
sternly,  '  I  am  very  sorry  indeed  that  we  can't  agree  ; 
but,  after  what  has  passed  between  us  to-day,  I  do 
not  think  you  will  be  justified  in  again  trying  to  see 
my  daughter.' 

'  Begad,  sor,  they  were  all  aginst  me  for  agraying 
to  take  the  twinty-foive,'  whispered  the  well-to-do 
tenant  who  was  talking  to  the  agent. 

'  I  fail  to  understand,'  said  Captain  Hibbert 
haughtily,  '  that  Miss  Barton  said  anything  that 
would  lead  me  to  suppose  that  she  wished  me  to 


138  MUSLIN 

give  her  up.  However,  I  do  not  see  that  anything 
would  be  gained  by  discussing  this  matter  further. 
Good-morning,  Mrs.  Barton.' 

'  Good-morning,  Captain  Hibbert ;'  and  Mrs.  Barton 
smiled  winningly  as  she  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant 
to  show  him  out.  When  she  returned  to  the  window 
the  tenants  were  following  Mr.  Scully  into  the  rent- 
office,  and,  with  a  feeling  of  real  satisfaction  she 
murmured  to  herself : 

'  Well,  after  all,  nothing  ever  turns  out  as  badly 
as  we  expect  it.' 


XIV 

But,  although  Mrs.  Barton  had  bidden  the  captain 
away,  Olive's  sorrowful  looks  haunted  the  house. 

A  white  weary  profile  was  seen  on  the  staircase,  a 
sigh  was  heard  when  she  left  the  room ;  and  when, 
after  hours  of  absence,  she  was  sought  for,  she  was 
found  lying  at  full  length,  crying  upon  her  bed. 

f  My  dear,  it  distresses  me  to  see  you  in  this  state. 
You  really  must  get  up  ;  I  cannot  allow  it.  There's 
n  othing  that  spoils  one's  good  looks  like  unhappi- 
ness.  Instead  of  being  the  belle  of  the  season,  you'll 
be  a  complete  wreck.  I  must  insist  on  your  getting 
u  p,  and  trying  to  interest  yourself  in  something.' 

1  Oh  !  mamma,  don't,  don't !  I  wish  I  were  dead  ; 
I  am  sick  of  everything  !' 

'  Sick  of  everything  ?'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  laughing. 
'  Wh  y,  my  dear  child,  you  have  tasted  nothing  yet. 
Wait  unt  il  we  get  to  the  Castle. ;  you'll  see  what  a 
lot  of  Captain  Hibberts  there  will  be  after  this  pretty 


MUSLIN  139 

face ;  that's  to  say  if  you  don't  spoil  it  in  the  mean- 
time with  fretting.' 

'  But,  mamma,'  she  said,  '  how  can  I  help  thinking 
of  him  ? — there's  nothing  to  do  here,  one  never  hears 
of  anything  but  that  horrid  Land  League — whether 
the  Government  will  or  will  not  help  the  landlords, 
whether  Paddy  So-and-so  will  or  will  not  pay  his 
rent.  I  am  sick  of  it.  Milord  comes  to  see  you,  and 
Alice  likes  reading-books,  and  papa  has  his  painting  ; 
but  I  have  nothing  since  you  sent  Captain  Hibbert 
away.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  my  beautiful  Olive  flower,  it  is  a  little 
dull  for  you  at  present,  and  to  think  that  this  wicked 
agitation  should  have  begun  the  very  season  you 
were  coming  out !  Who  could  have  foreseen  such  a 
thing  ?  But  come,  my  pet,  I  cannot  allow  you  to 
ruin  your  beautiful  complexion  with  foolish  tears ; 
you  must  get  up ;  unfortunately  I  can't  have  you  in 
the  drawing-room,  I  have  to  talk  business  with  Milord, 
but  you  can  go  out  for  a  walk  with  Alice — it  isn't 
raining  to-day.' 

'  Oh  !  no  ;  I  couldn't  go  out  to  walk  with  Alice,  it 
would  bore  me  to  death.  She  never  talks  about 
anything  that  interests  me.' 

Vanished  the  sweet  pastel-like  expression  of  Mrs. 
Barton's  features,  lost  in  a  foreseeing  of  the  trouble 
this  plain  girl  would  be.  Partners  would  have  to  be 
found,  and  to  have  her  dragging  after  her  all  through 
the  Castle  season  would  be  intolerable.  And  all 
these  airs  of  virtue,  and  injured  innocence,  how  in- 
supportable they  were  !  Alice,  as  far  as  Mrs.  Barton 
could  see,  was  fit  for  nothing.  Even  now,  instead  of 
helping  to  console  her  sister,  and  win  her  thoughts 


140  MUSLIN 

away  from  Captain  Hibbert,  she  shut  herself  up  to 
read  books.     Such  a  taste  for  reading  and  moping 
she  had  never  seen  in  a  girl  before — voilh  un  type  de 
vieillejille.    Whom  did  she  take  after  ?    Certainly  not 
after  her  mother,  nor  yet  her  father.     But  what  was 
the  good  of  thinking  of  the  tiresome  girl  ?     There 
were  plenty  of  other  things  far  more  important  to 
consider,  and  the  first  thing  of  all  was — how  to  make 
Olive  forget  Captain  Hibbert  ?     On  this  point  Mrs. 
Barton  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  played  her  part.     Olive's  engagement 
had    been    broken   off  by    too    violent   means,  and 
nothing  was  more  against  her  nature  than  (to  use 
her  own  expression)  brusquer  les  chases.    Early  in  life 
Mrs.  Barton  discovered  that  she  could  amuse  men, 
and  since  then  she  had  devoted  herself  assiduously 
to  the   cultivation  of  this    talent,  and  the  divorce 
between  herself  and  her  own  sex  was  from  the  first 
complete.     She  not  only  did  not  seek  to  please,  but 
she  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  aversion  from 
the  society  of  women,  and  her  preference  for  those 
forms  of  entertainment  where  they  were  found  in 
fewest  numbers.     Balls  were,  therefore,  never  much 
to  her  taste ;  at  the  dinner-table  she  was  freer,  but 
it  was  on  the  racecourse  that  she  reigned  supreme. 
From  the  box-seat  of  a  drag  the  white  hands  were 
waved,    the    cajoling    laugh    was    set    going ;    and 
fashionably-dressed   men,    with    race-glasses    about 
their  shoulders,  came  crowding  and  climbing  about 
her  like  bees  about  their  queen.     Mrs.  Barton  had 
passed  from  flirtation  to  flirtation  without  a  violent 
word.     With  a  wave  of  her  hands  she  had  called  the 
man  she  wanted  ;  with  a  wave  of  her  hands,  and  a 


MUSLIN  141 

tinkle  of  the  bell-like  laugh,  she  had  dismissed  him. 
As  nothing  had  cost  her  a  sigh,  nothing  had  been 
denied  her.  But  now  all  was  going  wrong.  Olive 
was  crying  and  losing  her  good  looks.  Mr.  Barton 
had  received  a  threatening  letter,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, had  for  a  week  past  been  unable  to  tune  his 
guitar  ;  poor  Lord  Dungory  was  being  bored  to  death 
by  policemen  and  proselytizing  daughters.  Every- 
thing was  going  wrong.  This  phrase  recurred  in 
Mrs.  Barton's  thoughts  as  she  reviewed  the  situation, 
her  head  leaned  in  the  pose  of  the  most  plaintive 
of  the  pastels  that  Lord  Dungory  had  commissioned 
his  favourite  artist  to  execute  in  imitation  of  the 
Lady  Hamilton  portraits.  And  now,  his  finger  on 
his  lip,  like  harlequin  glancing  after  columbine, 
the  old  gentleman,  who  had  entered  on  tiptoe, 
exclaimed  : 

( "  Aves  vous  ini,  dans  Burcelone 
Une  Andalouse  au  sein  bruni  ? 
Pule  comme  un  beau  soir  a"  A  utomne  ; 
Cesl  via  mattresse,  ma  lionne  ! 
La  Marquesa  d'  Amali-qui."' 

Instantly  the  silver  laugh  was  set  a-tinkling,  and, 
with  delightful  gestures,  Milord  was  led  captive  to 
the  sofa. 

e  Cest  Vanrore  qui  vient  pour  dissiper  les  brumes  du 
matin,'  Mrs.  Barton  declared  as  she  settled  her  skirts 
over  her  ankles. 

'  "  Quelle  est  superbe  en  son  desnrdre 
Quand  elle  tombe.  .  .  ."' 

'  Hush,  hush  !'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barton,  bursting 
with  laughter ;   and,  placing  her  hand   (which  was 


142  MUSLIN 

instantly  fervently  kissed)  upon  Milord's  mouth,  she 
said  :  '  I  will  hear  no  more  of  that  wicked  poetry.' 

'  What !  hear  no  more  of  the  divine  Alfred  de 
Musset  ?'  Milord  answered,  as  if  a  little  discouraged. 

'  Hush,  hush  !' 

Alice  entered,  having  come  from  her  room  to 
fetch  a  book,  but  seeing  the  couple  on  the  sofa 
she  tried  to  retreat,  adding  to  her  embarrassment 
and  to  theirs  by  some  ill-expressed  excuses. 

'  Don't  run  away  like  that,'  said  Mrs.  Barton ; 
'  don't  behave  like  a  charity-school  girl.  Come  in. 
I  think  you  know  Lord  Dungory.' 

'  Oh  !  this  is  the  studious  one,'  said  Milord,  as 
he  took  Alice  affectionately  with  both  hands,  and 
drew  her  towards  him.  '  Now  look  at  this  fair  brow ; 
I  am  sure  there  is  poetry  here.  I  was  just  speaking 
to  your  mother  about  Alfred  de  Musset.  He  is  not 
quite  proper,  it  is  true,  for  you  girls  ;  but  oh,  what 
passion  !  He  is  the  poet  of  passion.  I  suppose  you 
love  Byron  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  but  not  so  much  as  Shelley  and  Keats,' 
said  Alice  enthusiastically,  forgetting  for  the  moment 
her  aversion  to  the  speaker  in  the  allusion  to  her 
favourite  pursuit. 

'The  study  of  Shelley  is  the  fashion  of  the  day. 
You  know,  I  suppose,  the  little  piece  entitled  Loves 
Philosophy — "  The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river ; 
the  river  with  the  ocean."  You  know  "Nothing 
in  the  world  is  single :  all  things,  by  a  law  divine, 
in  one  another's  being  mingle.  Why  not  I  with 
thine  ?' 

(Oh  yes,  and  the  Sensitive  Plant.  Is  it  not 
lovely  ?' 


MUSLIN  143 

'  There  is  your  book,  my  dear ;  you  must  run 
away  now.  I  have  to  talk  with  Milord  about 
important  business.' 

Milord  looked  disappointed  at  being  thus  inter- 
rupted in  his  quotations ;  but  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  led  back  to  the  sofa.  '  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
a  moment/  said  Mrs.  Barton,  whom  a  sudden  thought 
had  struck,  and  she  followed  her  daughter  out  of  the 
room. 

'  Instead  of  wasting  your  time  reading  all  this 
love-poetry,  Alice,  it  would  be  much  better  if  you 
would  devote  a  little  of  your  time  to  your  sister ; 
she  is  left  all  alone,  and  you  know  I  don't  care  that 
she  should  be  always  in  Barnes'  society.' 

'  But  what  am  I  to  do,  mamma  ?  I  have  often 
asked  Olive  to  come  out  with  me,  but  she  says  I 
don't  amuse  her.' 

( I  want  you  to  win  her  thoughts  away  from 
Captain  Hibbert,'  said  Mrs.  Barton  ;  '  she  is  griev- 
ing her  heart  out  and  will  be  a  wreck  before  we 
go  to  Dublin.  Tell  her  you  heard  at  Dungory 
Castle  that  he  was  flirting  with  other  girls,  that  he 
is  not  worth  thinking  about,  and  that  the  Marquis 
is  in  love  with  her.' 

1  But  that  would  be  scarcely  the  truth,  mamma,' 
Alice  replied  hesitatingly. 

Mrs.  Barton  gave  her  daughter  one  quick  look, 
bit  her  lips,  and,  without  another  word,  returned  to 
Milord.  Everything  was  decidedly  going  wrong ; 
and  to  be  annoyed  by  that  gawk  of  a  girl  in  a  time 
like  the  present  was  unbearable.  But  Mrs.  Barton 
never  allowed  her  temper  to  master  her,  and  in  two 
minutes  all  memory  of  Alice  had  passed  out  of  her 


144  MUSLIN 

mind,  and  she  was  talking  business  with  Lord 
Dungory.  Many  important  questions  had  to  be 
decided.  It  was  known  that  mortgages,  jointures, 
legacies,  and  debts  of  all  kinds  had  reduced  the 
Marquis's  income  to  a  minimum,  and  that  he  stood 
in  urgent  need  of  a  little  ready  money.  It  was 
known  that  his  relations  looked  to  an  heiress  to 
rehabilitate  the  family  fortune.  Mrs.  Barton  hoped 
to  dazzle  him  with  Olive's  beauty,  but  it  was  charac- 
teristic of  her  to  wish  to  bait  the  hook  on  every 
side,  and  she  hoped  that  a  little  gilding  of  it  would 
silence  the  chorus  of  scorn  and  dissent  that  9he 
knew  would  be  raised  against  her  when  once  her 
plans  became  known.  Four  thousand  pounds  might 
be  raised  on  the  Brookfield  property,  but,  if  this 
sum  could  be  multiplied  by  five,  Mrs.  Barton  felt 
she  would  be  going  into  the  matrimonial  market 
armed  to  the  teeth,  and  prepared  to  meet  all  comers. 
And,  seeking  the  solution  of  this  problem,  Milord 
and  Mrs.  Barton  sat  on  the  sofa,  drawn  up  close 
together,  their  knees  touching  ;  he,  although 
gracious  and  urbane  as  was  his  wont,  seemed  more 
than  usually  thoughtful.  She,  although  as  charmful 
and  cajoling  as  ever,  in  the  pauses  of  the  conversa- 
tion allowed  an  expression  of  anxiety  to  cloud  her 
bright  face.  Fifteen  thousand  pounds  requires  a 
good  deal  of  accounting  for,  but,  after  many  argu- 
ments had  been  advanced  on  either  side,  it  was 
decided  that  she  had  made,  within  the  last  seven 
years,  many  successful  investments.  She  had  com- 
menced by  winning  five  hundred  pounds  at  racing, 
and  this  money  had  been  put  into  Mexican  railways. 
The  speculation  had  proved  an  excellent  one,  and 


MUSLIN  U5 

then,  with  a  few  airy  and  casual  references  to  Hud- 
son Bay,  Grand  Trunks,  and  shares  in  steamboats,  it 
was  thought  the  creation  of  Olive's  fortune  could 
be  satisfactorily  explained  to  a  not  too  exacting 
society. 

Three  or  four  days  after,  Mrs.  Barton  surprised 
the  young  ladies  by  visiting  them  in  the  sitting- 
room.  Barnes  was  working  at  the  machine,  Olive 
stood  drumming  her  fingers  idly  against  the  window- 
pane. 

'Just  fancy  seeing  you,  mamma!  I  was  looking 
out  for  Milord;  he  is  a  little  late  to-day,  is  he  not?' 
said  Olive. 

'  I  do  not  expect  him  to-day — he  is  suffering  from 
a  bad  cold ;  this  weather  is  dreadfully  trying.  But 
how  snug  you  are  in  your  little  room ;  and  Alice  is 
absolutely  doing  needlework.' 

'  I  wonder  what  I  am  doing  wrong  now,'  thought 
the  girl. 

Barnes  left  the  room.  Mrs.  Barton  threw  some 
turf  upon  the  fire,  and  she  looked  round.  Her  eyes 
rested  on  the  cardboard  boxes — on  the  bodice  left 
upon  the  work-table — on  the  book  that  Alice  had 
laid  aside,  and  she  spoke  of  these  things,  evidently 
striving  to  interest  herself  in  the  girl's  occupation. 
At  length  she  said  : 

'  If  the  weather  clears  up  I  think  we  might  all  go 
for  a  drive ;  there  is  really  no  danger.  The  Land 
League  never  has  women  fired  at.  We  might  go 
and  see  the  Brennans.     What  do  you  think,  Olive  ?' 

'  I  don't  care  to  go  off  there  to  see  a  pack  of 
women,'  the  girl  replied,  still  drumming  her  fingers 
on  the  window-pane. 

K. 


146  MUSLIN 

'  Now;  Olive,  don't  answer  so  crossly,  but  come 
and  sit  down  here  by  me ;'  and,  to  make  room  for 
her,  Mrs.  Barton  moved  nearer  to  Alice.  '  So  my 
beautiful  Olive  doesn't  care  for  a  pack  of  women,' 
said  Mrs.  Barton — '  Olive  does  not  like  a  pack  of 
women ;  she  would  prefer  a  handsome  young  lord, 
or  a  duke,  or  an  earl.' 

Olive  turned  up  her  lips  contemptuously,  for  she 
guessed  her  mother's  meaning. 

'  What  curious  lives  those  girls  do  lead,  cooped 
up  there  by  themselves,  with  their  little  periodical 
trip  up  to  the  Shelbourne  Hotel.  Of  course  the 
two  young  ones  never  could  have  done  much ;  they 
never  open  their  lips,  but  Gladys  is  a  nice  girl  in 
her  way,  and  she  has  some  money  of  her  own,  I 
wonder  she  wasn't  picked  up.' 

'  I  should  like  to  know  who  would  care  for 
her?' 

( She  had  a  very  good  chance  once ;  but  she 
wouldn't  say  yes,  and  she  wouldn't  say  no,  and  she 
kept  him  hanging  after  her  until  at  last  off  he  went 
and  married  someone  else.     A  Mr.  Blake,  I  think.' 

'  Yes,  that  was  his  name ;  and  why  wouldn't  she 
marry  him  ?' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know — folly,  I  suppose.  He  was, 
of  course,  not  so  young  as  Harry  Renley,  but  he  had 
two  thousand  a  year,  and  he  would  have  made  her 
an  excellent  husband  ;  kept  a  carriage  for  her,  and 
a  house  in  London :  whereas  you  see  she  has  re- 
mained Miss  Brennan,  goes  up  every  year  to  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel  to  buy  dresses,  and  gets  older  and 
more  withered  every  day.' 

'  I  know  they  lead  a  stupid  life  down  here,  but 


MUSLIN  147 

mightn't  they  go  abroad  and  travel  ?'  asked  Alice ; 
'  they  are  no  longer  so  very  young.' 

'  A  woman  can  do  nothing  until  she  is  married/ 
Mrs.  Barton  answered  decisively. 

'  But  some  husbands  treat  their  wives  infamously ; 
isn't  no  husband  better  than  a  bad  husband  ?' 

•  I  don't  think  so,'  returned  Mrs.  Barton,  and  she 
glanced  sharply  at  her  daughter.     '  I  would  sooner 
have    the   worst    husband    in   the   world   than   no 
husband.'     Then  settling  herself  like  a  pleader  who 
has  come  to  the  incisive  point  of  his  argument,  she 
continued  :  c  A  woman  is  absolutely  nothing  without 
a  husband ;  if  she  doesn't  wish  to  pass  for  a  failure 
she  must  get  a  husband,  and  upon  this  all  her  ideas 
should  be  set.     I  have  always  found  that  in  this  life 
we  can  only  hope  to  succeed  in  what  we  undertake 
by  keeping  our  minds  fixed  on  it  and  never  letting 
it  out  of  sight  until  it  is  attained.     Keep  on  trying, 
that  is  my  advice  to  all  young  ladies :  try  to  make 
yourselves   agreeable,  try  to   learn   how  to   amuse 
men.      Flatter   them ;    that   is    the    great    secret ; 
nineteen  out  of  twenty  will  believe  you,  and  the 
one  that  doesn't  can't  but  think  it  delightful.    Don't 
waste  your  time  thinking  of  your  books,  your  paint- 
ing, your  accomplishments  ;  if  you  were  Jane  Austens, 
George  Eliots,  and  Rosa  Bonheurs,  it  would  be  of  no 
use  if  you  weren't  married.     A  husband  is  better 
than  talent,   better  even   than   fortune — without  a 
husband  a  woman  is  nothing ;  with  a  husband  she 
may  rise  to  any  height.     Marriage  gives  a  girl  liberty, 
gives  her  admiration,  gives  her  success ;  a  woman's 
whole  position  depends  upon  it.     And  while  we  are 
on  the  subject  it  is  as  well  to  have  one's  say,  and  I 


148  MUSLIN 

speak  lor  you  both.  You,  Alice,  are  too  much 
inclined  to  shrink  into  the  background  and  waste 
your  time  with  books ;  and  you  too,  Olive,  are 
behaving  very  foolishly,  wasting  your  time  and  your 
complexion  over  a  silly  girlish  flirtation.' 

'There's  no  use  talking  about  that.  You  have 
forbidden  him  the  house  ;  you  can't  do  any  more.' 

'  No,  Olive,  all  I  did  was  to  insist  that  he  should 
not  come  running  after  you  until  you  had  had  time 
to  consider  the  sacrifices  you  were  making  for  him. 
I  have  no  one's  interest  in  the  world,  my  dear  girl, 
but  your  interests.  Officers  are  all  very  well  to 
laugh,  talk,  and  flirt  with — pour  passer  le  temps — 
but  I  couldn't  allow  you  to  throw  yourself  away  on 
the  first  man  you  meet.  You  will  meet  hundreds  of 
others  quite  as  handsome  and  as  nice  at  the  Castle.' 

'  I  never  could  care  for  anyone  else.' 

'  Wait  until  you  have  seen  the  others.  Besides, 
what  do  you  want  ?  to  be  engaged  to  him  ?  And  I 
should  like  to  know  what  is  the  use  of  my  taking 
an  engaged  girl  up  to  the  Castle  ?  No  one  would 
look  at  you.' 

Olive  raised  her  eyes  in  astonishment ;  she  had 
not  considered  the  question  from  this  point  of  view, 
and  the  suggestion  that,  if  engaged,  she  might  as 
well  stop  at  home,  for  no  one  would  look  at  her, 
filled  her  with  alarm. 

'  Whereas,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  who  saw  that  her 
words  had  the  intended  effect,  '  if  you  were  free 
you  would  be  the  season's  beauty ;  nothing  would  be 
thought  of  but  you ;  you  would  have  lords,  and 
earls,  and  marquesses  dancing  attendance  on  you, 
begging  you  to  dance  with  them ;  you  would  be 


MUSLIN  149 

spoken    of   in    the    papers,    described    as    the    new 

beauty,  and  what  not,  and  then  if  you  were  free ' 

Here  Mrs.  Barton  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and,  letting 
her  white  hand  fall  over  the  arm  of  her  chair,  she 
seemed  to  abandon  herself  to  the  unsearchable 
decrees  of  destiny. 

'  Well,  what  then,  mamma  ?'  asked  Olive  excitedly. 
'  I  am  free,  am  I  not  ?' 

'  Then  you  could  outstrip  the  other  girls,  and  go 
away  with  the  great  prize.  They  are  all  watching 
him ;  he  will  go  to  one  of  you  for  certain.  I  hear 
that  Mrs.  Scully — that  great,  fat,  common  creature, 
who  sold  bacon  in  a  shop  in  Galway  — is  thinking  of 
him  for  her  daughter.  Of  course,  if  you  like  to  see 
Violet  become  a  marchioness,  right  under  your  nose, 
you  can  do  so.' 

'  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?'  exclaimed  the 
coronet-dazzled  girl. 

'  Merely  to  think  no  more  of  Captain  Hibbert. 
But  I  didn't  tell  you  ; — he  was  very  impertinent  to 
me  when  I  last  saw  him.  He  said  he  would  flirt 
with  you,  as  long  as  you  would  flirt  with  him,  and 
that  he  didn't  see  why  you  shouldn't  amuse  your- 
self. That's  what  I  want  to  warn  you  against — 
losing  your  chance  of  being  a  marchioness  to  help 
an  idle  young  officer  to  while  away  his  time.  If  I 
were  you,  I  would  tell  him,  when  I  next  saw  him, 
that  he  must  not  think  about  it  any  more.  You  can 
put  it  all  down  to  me ;  say  that  I  would  never  hear 
of  it ;  say  that  you  couldn't  think  of  disobeying  me, 
but  that  you  hope  you  will  always  remain  friends. 
You  see,  that's  the  advantage  of  having  a  mother  ; — 
poor  mamma  has  to  bear  everything.' 


150  MUSLIN 

Olive  made  no  direct  answer,  but  she  laughed 
nervously,  and  in  a  manner  that  betokened  assent  ; 
and,  having  so  far  won  her  way,  Mrs.  Barton  deter- 
mined to  conclude.  But  she  could  not  invite  Captain 
Hibbert  to  the  house  !  The  better  plan  would  be  to 
meet  on  neutral  ground.  A  luncheon-party  at  Dun- 
gory  Castle  instantly  suggested  itself;  and  three 
days  after,  as  they  drove  through  the  park,  Mrs. 
Barton  explained  to  Olive,  for  the  last  time,  how  she 
should  act  if  she  wished  to  become  the  Marchioness 
of  Kilcarney. 

f  Shake  hands  with  him  just  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, but  don't  enter  into  conversation ;  and  after 
lunch  I  shall  arrange  that  we  all  go  out  for  a  walk 
on  the  terrace.  You  will  then  pair  off  with  him, 
Alice  ;  Olive  will  join  you.  Something  will  be  sure 
to  occur  that  will  give  her  an  opportunity  of  saying 
that  he  must  think  no  more  about  her — that  I  would 
never  consent.' 

'  Oh  !  mamma,  It  is  very  hard,  for  I  can  never 
forget  him.' 

'  Now,  my  dear  girl,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  work 
yourself  up  into  a  state  of  mind,  or  we  may  as  well 
go  back  to  Brookfield.  What  I  tell  you  to  do  is 
right ;  and  if  you  see  nobody  at  the  Castle  that  you 
like  better — well,  then  it  will  be  time  enough.  I 
want  you  to  be,  at  least,  the  beauty  of  one  season.' 

This  argument  again  turned  the  scales.  Olive 
laughed,  but  her  laugh  was  full  of  the  nervous 
excitement  from  which  she  suffered. 

'  I  shan't  know  what  to  say,'  she  exclaimed,  tossing 
her  head,  '  so  I  hope  you  will  help  me  out  of  my 
difficulty,  Alice.' 


MUSLIN  151 

'  I  wish  I  could  be  left  out  of  it  altogether,'  said 
the  girl,  who  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  horses. 
'  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  being  put  into  a  very  false 
position !' 

'  Put  into  a  false  position  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton.  '  I'll 
hear  no  more  of  this  !  If  you  won't  do  as  you  are 
told,  you  had  better  go  back  to  St.  Leonards — such 
wicked  jealousy  !' 

'  Oh,  mamma  !'  said  Alice,  wounded  to  the  quick, 
'  how  can  you  be  so  unjust  ?' 

And  her  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  for  since  she  had 
left  school  she  had  experienced  only  a  sense  of 
retreating  within  herself,  but  so  long  as  she  was 
allowed  to  live  within  herself  she  was  satisfied.  But 
this  refuge  was  no  longer  available.  She  must  take 
part  in  the  scuffle  ;  and  she  couldn't.  But  whither 
to  go  ?  There  seemed  to  be  no  escape  from  the 
world  into  which  she  had  been  thrust,  and  for  no 
purpose  but  to  suffer.  But  the  others  didn't  suffer. 
Why  wasn't  she  like  them  ? 

1  I  am  sorry,  Alice  dear,  for  having  spoken  so 
crossly  ;  but  I  am  sorely  tried.  I  really  am  more  to 
be  pitied  than  blamed ;  and  if  you  knew  all,  you 
would,  I  know,  be  the  first  to  try  to  help  me  out  of 
my  difficulties,  instead  of  striving  to  increase  them.' 

1  I  would  do  anything  to  help  you,'  exclaimed 
Alice,  deceived  by  the  accent  of  sorrow  with  which 
Mrs.  Barton  knew  how  to  invest  her  words. 

'  I  am  sure  you  would,  if  you  knew  how  much 
depends But  dry  your  eyes,  my  dear,  for  good- 
ness' sake  dry  them.  Here  we  are  at  the  door.  I 
only  want  you  to  be  with  Olive  when  she  tells  Cap- 
tain Hibbert  that  she  cannot — and,  now  mind,  Olive, 


152  MUSLIN 

you  tell  him  plainly  that  he  must  not  consider  him- 
self engaged  to  you.' 

In  the  ceremonious  drawing-room,  patched  with 
fragments  of  Indian  drapery,  Lady  Jane  and  Lady 
Sarah  sat  angularly  and  as  far  from  their  guests  as 
possible,  for  they  suspected  that  their  house  was 
being  made  use  of  as  a  battle-ground  by  Mrs.  Barton, 
and  were  determined  to  resent  the  impertinence  as 
far  as  lay  in  their  power.  But  Milord  continued  to 
speak  of  indifferent  things  with  urbanity  and  courtly 
gestures  ;  and  as  they  descended  the  staircase,  he 
explained  the  beauty  of  his  marble  statues  and  his 
stuffed  birds. 

1  But,  Lady  Jane,  where  is  Cecilia  ?  I  hope  she  is 
not  unwell  ?' 

'  Oh  no  ;  Cecilia  is  quite  well,  thank  you.  But 
she  never  comes  down  when  there  is  company — she 
is  so  very  sensitive.  But  that  reminds  me.  She  told 
me  to  tell  you  that  she  is  dying  to  see  you.  You 
will  find  her  waiting  for  you  in  her  room  when  we 
have  finished  lunch.' 

'  Cecilia  is  not  the  only  person  to  be  thought  of,' 
said  Milord.  '  I  will  not  allow  Alice  to  hide  herself 
away  upstairs  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  I  hear, 
Alice,  you  are  a  great  admirer  of  Tennyson's  Idylls. 
I  have  just  received  a  new  edition  of  his  poems, 
with  illustrations  by  Dore :  charming  artist,  full  of 
poetry,  fancy,  sweetness,  imagination.  Do  you 
admire  Dore,  Captain  Hibbert  ?' 

The  Captain  declared  that  he  admired  Dore  far 
more  than  the  old  masters,  a  point  of  taste  that 
Milord  ventured  to  question ;  and  until  they  rose 
from  table  he  spoke  of  his  collection  of  Arundel 


MUSLIN  153 

prints  with  grace  and  erudition.  Then  they  all 
went  out  to  walk  on  the  terrace.  But  as  their  feet 
echoed  in  the  silence  of  the  hall,  Cecilia,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  expectancy,  was  heard  speaking  : 

'  Alice,  come  upstairs  ;  I  am  waiting  for  you.' 

Alice  made  a  movement  as  if  to  comply,  but, 
stepping  under  the  banisters,  Lord  Dungory  said  : 

'  Alice  cannot  come  now,  she  is  going  out  to  walk 
with  us,  dear.     She  will  see  you  afterwards.' 

'  Oh  !  let  me  go  to  her,'  Alice  cried. 

'  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  see  her  later  on,' 
whispered  Mrs.  Barton.  '  Remember  what  you  pro- 
mised me;'  and  she  pointed  to  Captain  Hibbert,  who 
was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  house,  his  wide 
decorative  shoulders  defined  against  a  piece  of  grey 
sky. 

In  despair  at  her  own  helplessness,  and  with  a 
feeling  of  loathing  so  strong  that  it  seemed  like 
physical  sickness,  Alice  went  forward  and  entered 
into  conversation  with  Captain  Hibbert.  Lord 
Dungory,  Mrs.  Barton,  and  Olive  walked  together ; 
Lady  Jane  and  Lady  Sarah  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. In  this  order  the  party  proceeded  down  the 
avenue  as  far  as  the  first  gate  ;  then  they  returned 
by  a  side-walk  leading  through  the  laurels,  and 
stood  in  a  line  facing  the  wind -worn  tennis- 
ground,  with  its  black,  flowerless  beds,  and  bleak 
vases  of  alabaster  and  stone.  From  time  to  time 
remarks  anent  the  Land  League  were  made ;  but  all 
knew  that  a  drama  even  as  important  as  that  of  rent 
was  being  enacted.  Olive  had  joined  her  sister,  and 
the  girls  moved  forward  on  either  side  of  the  hand- 
some Captain  ;  and,  as  a  couple  of  shepherds  directing 


154  MUSLIN 

the  movements  of  their  flock,  Lord  Dungory  and 
Mrs.  Barton  stood  watching.  Suddenly  her  eyes 
met  Lady  Jane's.  The  glance  exchanged  was  tem- 
pered in  the  hate  of  years ;  it  was  vindictive,  cruel, 
terrible ;  it  shone  as  menacingly  as  if  the  women 
had  drawn  daggers  from  their  skirts,  and  Jane, 
obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  broke  away  from  her 
sister,  and  called  to  Captain  Hibbert.  Fortunately 
he  did  not  hear  her,  and,  before  she  could  speak 
again,  Lord  Dungory  said  : 

'  Jane,  now,  Jane,  I  beg  of  you ' 

Mrs.  Barton  smiled  a  sweet  smile  of  reply,  and 
whispered  to  herself: 

1  Do  that  again,  my  lady,  and  you  won't  have  a 
penny  to  spend  this  year.' 

'  And  now,  dear,  tell  me,  I  want  to  hear  all  about 
it,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  as  the  carriage  left  the  steps  of 
Dungory  Castle.     '  What  did  he  say  ?' 

(  Oh  !  mamma,  mamma,  I  am  afraid  I  have  broken 
his  heart,'  replied  Olive  dolorously. 

'  It  doesn't  do  a  girl  any  harm  even  if  it  does  leak 
out  that  she  jilted  a  man  ;  it  makes  the  others  more 
eager  after  her.  But  tell  me,  dear,  I  hope  there  was 
no  misunderstanding ;  did  you  really  tell  him  that  it 
was  no  use,  that  he  must  think  of  you  no  more  ?' 

'  Mamma  dear,  don't  make  me  go  over  it  again,  1 
can't,  I  can't ;  Alice  heard  all  I  said — she'll  tell  you.' 

'  No,  no,  don't  appeal  to  me ;  it's  no  affair  of 
mine,'  exclaimed  the  girl  more  impetuously  than  she 
had  intended. 

'  I  am  surprised  at  you,  Alice  ;  you  shouldn't  give 
way  to  temper  like  that.  Come,  tell  me  at  once 
what  happened.' 


MUSLIN  155 

The  thin,  grey,  moral  eyes  of  the  daughter  and 
the  brown,  soft,  merry  eyes  of  the  mother  exchanged 
a  long  deep  gaze  of  inquiry,  and  then  Alice  burst 
into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  tears.  She  trembled 
from  too  much  grief,  and  could  not  answer  ;  and 
when  she  heard  her  mother  say  to  Olive,  '  Now  that 
the  coast  is  clear,  we  can  go  in  heart  and  soul  for 
the  marquess,'  she  shuddered  inwardly  and  wished 
she  might  stay  at  home  in  Galway  and  be  spared  the 
disgrace  of  the  marriage-market. 

XV 

It  rained  incessantly.  Sheets  of  water,  blown  by 
winds  that  had  travelled  the  Atlantic,  deluged  the 
county  ;  grey  mists  trailed  mournful  and  shapeless 
along  the  edges  of  the  domain  woods,  over  the 
ridges  of  the  tenants'  holdings.  '  Never  more  shall 
we  be  driven  forth  to  die  in  the  bogs  and  ditches,' 
was  the  cry  that  rang  through  the  mist ;  and, 
guarded  by  policemen,  in  their  stately  houses,  the 
landlords  listened,  waiting  for  the  sword  of  a  new 
coercion  to  fall  and  release  them  from  their  bondage. 
The  meeting  of  Parliament  in  the  spring  would 
bring  them  this  ;  in  the  meantime,  all  who  could, 
fled,  resolving  not  to  return  till  the  law  restored  the 
power  that  the  Land  League  had  so  rudely  shaken. 
Some  went  to  England,  others  to  France.  Mr.  Barton 
accepted  two  hundred  pounds  from  his  wife  and  pro- 
ceeded to  study  gargoyles  and  pictures  in  Bruges  ; 
and,  striving  to  forget  the  murders  and  rumours  of 
murders  that  filled  the  papers,  the  girls  and  their 
mammas   talked   of  beaux,  partners,  and   trains,  in 


156  MUSLIN 

spite  of  the  irritating  presence  of  the  Land  League 
agitators  who  stood  on  the  platforms  of  the  different 
stations.  The  train  was  full  of  girls.  Besides  the 
Bartons,  there  were  the  Brennans :  Gladys  and  Zoe 
— Emily  remained  at  home  to  look  after  the  place. 
Three  of  the  Miss  Duffys  were  coming  to  the 
Drawing-Room,  and  four  of  the  Honourable  Miss 
Gores  ;  the  Goulds  and  Scullys  made  one  party,  and 
to  avoid  Mrs.  Barton,  the  Ladies  Cullen  had  pleaded 
important  duties.  They  were  to  follow  in  a  day 
or  so. 

Lord  Dungory's  advice  to  Mrs.  Barton  was  to  take 
a  house,  and  he  warned  her  against  spending  the 
whole  season  in  an  hotel,  but  apparently  without 
avail,  for  when  the  train  stopped  a  laughing  voice 
was  heard  :  t  Milord,  vous  netes  quun  vilain  misan- 
thrope; we  shall  be  very  comfortable  at  the  Shel- 
bourne ;  we  shall  meet  all  the  people  in  Dublin 
there,  and  we  can  have  private  rooms  to  give  dinner- 
parties.' 

Hearing  this,  Alice  congratulated  herself,  for  in 
an  hotel  she  would  be  freer  than  she  would  be  in  a 
house  let  for  the  season.  She  would  hear  something, 
and  see  a  little  over  the  horizon  of  her  family  in  an 
hotel.  She  had  spent  a  week  in  the  Shelbourne  on 
her  way  home  from  school,  and  remembered  the  little 
winter-garden  on  the  first  landing,  and  the  fountain 
splashing  amid  ferns  and  stone  frogs.  The  ladies' 
drawing-room  she  knew  was  on  the  right,  and  when 
she  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  leaving  her 
mother  and  sister  talking  of  Mrs.  Symond  and  Lord 
Kilcarney,  she  went  there  hoping  to  find  some  of  the 
people  whom  she  had  met  there  before. 


MUSLIN  157 

The  usually  skirt-filled  ottoman  stood  vacantly 
gaping,  the  little  chairs  seemed  lonely  about  the 
hearthrug,  even  the  sofa  where  the  invalid  ladies  sat 
was  unoccupied,  and  the  perforated  blinds  gave  the 
crowds  that  passed  up  and  down  the  street  a  shadow- 
like appearance.  The  prospect  was  not  inspiriting, 
but  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  Alice  sat  down  by 
the  fire,  and  fell  to  thinking  who  the  man  might  be 
that  sat  reading  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace. 
He  didn't  seem  as  if  he  knew  much  about  horses, 
and  as  he  read  intently,  she  could  watch  him  un- 
observed. At  last  their  eyes  met,  and  when  Alice 
turned  away  her  face  she  felt  that  he  was  looking 
at  her,  and,  perhaps  getting  nervous  under  his 
examination,  she  made  a  movement  to  stir  the  fire. 

'  Will  you  allow  me  ?'  he  said,  rising  from  his 
chair.  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  but,  if  you  will  allow  me, 
I  will  arrange  the  fire.' 

Alice  let  him  have  the  poker,  and  when  he  had 
knocked  in  the  coal-crust  and  put  on  some  fresh 
fuel,  he  said  : 

'  If  it  weren't  for  me  I  don't  know  what  would 
become  of  this  fire.  I  believe  the  old  porter  goes  to 
sleep  and  forgets  all  about  it.  Now  and  again  he 
wakes  up  and  makes  a  deal  of  fuss  with  a  shovel  and 
a  broom.' 

e  I  really  can't  say,  we  only  came  up  from  Galway 
to-day.' 

'  Then  you  don't  know  the  famous  Shelbourne 
Hotel  !  All  the  events  of  life  are  accomplished 
here.  People  live  here,  and  die  here,  and  flirt  here, 
and,  I  was  going  to  say,  marry  here — but  hitherto 
the  Shelbourne  marriages  have  resulted  in  break-offs 


158  MUSLIN 

— and  we  quarrel  here  ;  the  friends  of  to-day  are 
enemies  to-morrow,  and  then  they  sit  at  different 
ends  of  the  room.  Life  in  the  Shelbourne  is  a  thing 
in  itself,  and  a  thing  to  be  studied.' 

Alice  laughed  again,  and  again  she  continued  her 
conversation. 

'  I  really  know  nothing  of  the  Shelbourne.  I  was 
only  here  once  before,  and  then  only  for  a  few  days 
last  summer,  when  I  came  home  from  school.' 

1  And  now  you  are  here  for  the  Drawing-Room  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  but  how  did  you  guess  that  ?' 

'  The  natural  course  of  events :  a  young  lady 
leaves  school,  she  spends  four  or  five  months  at 
home,  and  then  she  is  taken  to  the  Lord-Lieutenant's 
Drawing-Room. ' 

She  liked  him  none  the  better  for  what  he  had 
said,  and  began  to  wonder  how  she  might  bring  the 
conversation  to  a  close.  But  when  he  spoke  again 
she  forgot  her  intentions,  and  allowed  his  voice  to 
charm  her. 

'  I  think  you  told  me,'  he  said,  '  that  you  came 
up  from  Galway  to-day ;  may  I  ask  you  from  what 
side  of  the  county  ?' 

Another  piece  of  impertinence.  Why  should  he 
question  her  ?     And  yet  she  answered  him. 

'  We  live  near  Gort — do  you  know  Gort  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  have  been  travelling  for  the  last  two 
months  in  Ireland.  I  spent  nearly  a  fortnight  in 
Galway.  Lord  Dungory  lives  near  Gort.  Do  you 
know  him  ?' 

'  Very  well  indeed.  He  is  our  nearest  neigh- 
bour ;  we  see  him  nearly  every  day.  Do  you  know 
him  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  little.     I  have  met  him  in   London.     If 


MUSLIN  159 

1  had  not  been  so  pressed  for  time  I  should  have 
called  upon  him  when  I  was  in  Galway.  1  passed 
his  place  going  to  a  land  meeting — oh,  you  need  not 
be  alarmed,  I  am  not  a  Land  League  organizer,  or 
else  I  should  not  have  thought  of  calling  at  Dungory 
Castle.     What  a  pretty  drive  it  is  to  Gort.' 

c  Then,  do  you  know  a  place  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  road,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Dungory 
Castle  ?' 

'  You  mean  Brookfield  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  that  is  our  place.' 

1  Then  you  are  Miss  Barton  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  am  Miss  Barton ;  do  you  know  father  or 
mother  ?' 

(  No,  no  ;  but  I  have  heard  the  name  in  Galway. 
I  was  spending  a  few  days  with  one  of  your  neigh- 
bours.' 

1  Oh,  really  !'  said  Alice,  a  little  embarrassed;  for 
she  knew  it  must  have  been  with  the  Lawlers  that 
he  had  been  staying.  At  the  end  of  a  long  silence 
she  said  : 

'  I  am  afraid  you  have  chosen  a  rather  unfortunate 
time  for  visiting  Ireland.  All  these  terrible  out- 
rages, murders,  refusals  to  pay  rent ;  I  wonder  you 
have  not  been  frightened  away.' 

'  As  I  do  not  possess  a  foot  of  land — I  believe  I 
should  say  "  not  land  enough  to  sod  a  lark " — my 
claim  to  collect  rent  would  rest  on  even  a  slighter 
basis  than  that  of  the  landlords ;  and  as,  with  the 
charming  inconsistency  of  your  race,  you  have  taken 
to  killing  each  other  instead  of  slaughtering  the 
hated  Saxon,  I  really  feel  safer  in  Ireland  than  else- 
where. I  suppose,'  he  said,  '  you  do  a  great  deal 
of  novel-reading  in  the  country  ?' 


160  MUSLIN 

'  Oh  yes,'  she  answered,  with  almost  an  accent  of 
voluptuousness  in  her  voice  ;  '  I  spent  the  winter 
reading.' 

' Because  there  was  no  hunting?'  replied  Harding, 
with  a  smile  full  of  cynical  weariness. 

1  No,  I  assure  you,  no  ;  I  do  not  think  I  should 
have  gone  out  hunting  even  if  it  hadn't  been 
stopped,'  said  Alice  hastily ;  for  it  vexed  her  not  a 
little  to  see  that  she  was  considered  incapable  of 
loving  a  book  for  its  own  sake. 

*  And  what  do  you  read  ?' 

The  tone  of  indifference  with  which  the  question 
was  put  was  not  lost  upon  Alice,  but  she  was  too 
much  interested  in  the  conversation  to  pay  heed  to 
it.     She  said : 

'  I  read  nearly  all  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Tenny- 
son, and  Browning — I  think  I  like  him  better  than 
all  the  poets !  Do  you  know  the  scene  at  St. 
Praxed's  ?' 

'Yes,  of  course;  it  is  very  fine.  But  I  don't 
know  that  I  ever  cared  much  for  Browning.  Not 
only  the  verse,  but  the  whole  mind  of  the  man 
is  uncouth — yes,  uncouth  is  the  word  I  want.  He 
is  the  Carlyle  of  Poetry.  Have  you  ever  read 
Carlyle  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  have  read  his  French  Revolution 
and  his  Life  of  Schiller,  but  that's  all.  I  only 
came  home  from  school  last  summer,  and  at  school 
we  never  read  anything.  I  couldn't  get  many  new 
books  down  in  Galway.  There  were,  of  course, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  George  Eliot  in  the  library,  but 
that  was  all.  I  once  got  a  beautiful  book  from  Dun- 
gory  Castle.     I  wonder  if  you  ever  read  it  ?     It  is 


MUSLIN  Kil 

called  Madame  Getvaisais.  From  the  descrip- 
tions of  Rome  it  almost  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
been  there.' 

'  I  know  the  book,  but  I  didn't  know  a  Catholic 
girl  could  admire  it — and  you  are  a  Catholic,  I 
presume  ?' 

'  I  was  brought  up  a  Catholic' 

1  It  is  one  thing  to  be  brought  up  a  Catholic,  and 
another  to  avoid  doubting.' 

'  There  can  surely  be  no  harm  in  doubting  ?' 

'  Not  the  least ;  but  toward  which  side  are  you  ? 
Have  you  fallen  into  the  soft  feather-bed  of  agnos- 
ticism, or  the  thorny  ditch  of  belief?' 

1  Why  do  you  say  "  the  soft  feather-bed  of  agnos- 
ticism "  ?' 

'  It  must  be  a  relief  to  be  redeemed  from  belief  in 
hell ;  and  perhaps  there  is  no  other  redemption.' 

'  And  do  you  never  doubt  ?'  she  said. 

1  No,  I  can't  say  I  am  given  much  to  doubting, 
nor  do  I  think  the  subject  is  any  longer  worthy  of 
thought.  The  world's  mind,  after  much  anxiety, 
arrives  at  a  conclusion,  and  what  sages  cannot  deter- 
mine in  one  age,  a  child  is  certain  about  in  the  next. 
Thomas  Aquinas  was  harassed  with  doubts  regarding 
the  possibility  of  old  women  flying  through  the  air 
on  broomsticks  ;  nowadays  were  a  man  thus  afflicted 
he  would  be  surely  a  fit  subject  for  Hanwell.  The 
world  has  lived  through  Christianity,  as  it  has 
through  a  score  of  other  things.  But  I  am  afraid  I 
shock  you  ?' 

'  No,  I  don't  think  you  do  ;  only  I  never  heard 
anyone  speak  in  that  way  before — that  is  all.' 

Here  the  conversation  came  to  a  pause,  and  soon 

L 


162  MUSLIN 

after  the  presence  of  some  ladies  rendered  its 
revival  impossible.  Their  evening  gowns  suggested 
the  dinner-hour,  and  reminded  Alice  that  she  had  to 
prepare  herself  for  the  meal. 

All  the  Galway  people,  excepting  the  Honourable 
Misses  Gore  and  the  Scullys — who  had  taken 
houses  in  town  for  the  season — dined  at  table  d'hote. 
The  Miss  DufFys  were,  with  the  famous  Bertha,  the 
terror  of  the  debutantes.  The  Brennans  and  the 
Goulds  sat  at  the  same  table.  May,  thinking  of 
Fred,  who  had  promised  to  come  during  the  evening, 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  looking  unutterably  bored. 
Under  a  window  Sir  Richard  and  Sir  Charles  were 
immersed  in  wine  and  discussion.  In  earnest  tones 
the  latter  deprecated  the  folly  of  indulging  in 
country  love  ;  the  former,  his  hand  on  the  cham- 
pagne bottle,  hiccoughed,  '  Mu — ch  better  come  up 
— up  Dub — lin,  yer  know,  my  boy.  But  look,  look 
here  ;  I  know  such  a  nice  ' — a  glance  round,  to  make 
sure  that  no  lady  was  within  earshot ;  and  the  con- 
versation lapsed  into  a  still  more  confidential 
whisper. 

Mr.  Ryan  and  Mr.  Lynch  ate  their  dinner  in  sullen 
silence,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  table 
Mr.  Adair — whom  it  was  now  confidently  stated 
Mr.  Gladstone  could  not  possibly  get  on  without — 
talked  to  Mr.  Harding ;  and  when  the  few  dried 
oranges  and  tough  grapes  that  constituted  dessert 
had  been  tasted,  the  ladies  got  up,  and  in  twos  and 
threes  retired  to  the  ladies'  sitting-room.  They 
were  followed  by  Lord  Dungory,  Mr.  Adair,  and 
Mr.  Harding  :  the  other  gentlemen — the  baronets 
and  Messrs.  Ryan  and  Lynch — preferring  smoke  and 


MUSLIN  163 

drink  to  chatter  and  oblique  glances  in  the  direction 
of  ankle-concealing  skirts,  went  up  to  the  billiard- 
room.  And  the  skirts,  what  an  importance  they 
took  in  the  great  sitting-room  full  of  easy-chairs  and 
Swiss  scenery  :  chalets,  lakes,  cascades,  and  chamois, 
painted  on  the  light-coloured  walls.  The  big  otto- 
man was  swollen  with  bustled  skirts  ;  the  little  low 
seats  around  the  fire  disappeared  under  skirts  ;  skirts 
were  tucked  away  to  hide  the  slippered  feet,  skirts 
were  laid  out  along  the  sofas  to  show  the  elegance 
of  the  cut.  Then  woolwork  and  circulating  novels 
were  produced,  and  the  conversation  turned  on  mar- 
riage. Bertha  being  the  only  Dublin  girl  present, 
all  were  anxious  to  hear  her  speak  ;  after  a  few 
introductory  remarks,  she  began  : 

'  Oh  !  so  you  have  all  come  up  to  the  Castle  and 
are  going  to  be  presented.  Well,  3rou'll  find  the 
rooms  very  grand,  and  the  suppers  very  good,  and 
if  you  know  a  lot  of  people — particularly  the  officers 
quartered  here — you  will  find  the  Castle  balls  very 
amusing.  The  best  way  is  to  come  to  town  a 
month  before  the  Drawing-Room,  and  give  a  ball  ; 
and  in  that  way  you  get  to  know  all  the  men.  If 
you  haven't  done  that,  I  am  afraid  you  won't  get 
many  partners.  Even  if  you  do  get  introduced, 
they'll  only  ask  you  to  dance,  and  you'll  never  see 
them  again.  Dublin  is  like  a  racecourse,  men  come 
and  speak  to  you  and  pass  on.  'Tis  pleasant  enough 
if  you  know  people,  but  as  for  marriages,  there 
aren't  any.  I  assure  you  I  know  lots  of  girls — and 
very  pretty  girls,  too — who  have  been  going  out 
these  six  or  seven  seasons,  and  who  have  not  been 
able  to  pull  it  off.' 


164  MUSLIN 

c  And  the  worst  of  it  is,'  said  a  girl,  '  every  year 
we  are  growing  more  and  more  numerous,  and  the 
men  seem  to  be  getting  fewer.  Nowadays  a  man 
won't  look  at  you  unless  you  have  at  least  two 
thousand  a  year.' 

Mrs.  Barton,  who  did  not  wish  her  daughters  to 
be  discouraged  from  the  first,  settled  her  skirts  with 
a  movement  of  disdain.  Mrs.  Gould  pathetically 
declared  she  did  not  believe  love  to  be  dead  in  the 
world  yet,  and  maintained  her  opinion  that  a  nice 
girl  could  always  marry.  But  Bertha  was  not  easily 
silenced,  and,  being  perfectly  conversant  with  her 
subject,  she  disposed  of  Dublin's  claims  as  a  marriage- 
mart,  and  she  continued  to  comment  on  the  disap- 
pointments of  girls  until  the  appearance  of  Lord 
Dungory  and  Mr.  Harding  brought  the  conversation 
to  a  sudden  close. 

'  Une  causerie  de  fevime  !  que  ditcs-vous  ? — je  le  suis 
— V amour  nexiste  plus,  el  Tame  de  I'homme  est  plus  pres 
des  sens  que  I'dme  de  la  J'enime,'  said  Milord.  Every- 
one laughed  ;  and,  with  a  charming  movement  of 
her  skix-ts,  Mrs.  Barton  made  room  for  him  to  sit 
beside  her. 

Harding  withdrew  to  the  other  end  of  the  room 
to  resume  his  reading,  and  Alice  did  not  dare  to 
hope  that  he  would  lay  aside  his  book  and  come  to 
talk  to  her.  If  he  did,  her  mother  would  ask  her 
to  introduce  him  to  her,  and  she  would  have  to 
enter  into  explanations  that  he  and  she  had  merely 
exchanged  a  few  words  before  dinner. 

She  withstood  the  conversation  of  the  charmed 
circle  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  boldly  crossed 
the  room  for  a  newspaper.     Harding  rose  to  help 


MUSLIN  165 

her  to  find  one,  and  they  talked  together  till  Milord 
took  him  away  to  the  billiard-room. 

May,  who  had  been  vainly  expecting  Fred  the 
whole  evening,  said  : 

1  Well,  Alice,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  nice 
flirtation  ?' 

1  And  did  you  notice,  May,  how  she  left  us  to 
look  for  a  newspaper.  Our  Alice  is  fond  of  reading, 
but  it  was  not  of  reading  she  was  thinking  this 
evening.  She  kept  him  all  to  herself  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.'  Mrs.  Barton  laughed  merrily, 
and  Alice  began  to  understand  that  her  mother  was 
approving  her  flirtation.  That  is  the  name  that  her 
mother  would  give  her  talk  with  Mr.  Harding. 


XVI 

During  the  Dublin  Season  it  is  found  convenient  to 
give  teas  :  the  young  ladies  have  to  be  introduced 
to  the  men  they  will  meet  after  at  the  Castle. 
These  gatherings  take  place  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Barton  started  from  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel  for  Lady  Georgina  Stapleton's, 
she  fell  to  thinking  that  a  woman  is  never  really 
vulnerable  until  she  is  bringing  out  her  daughters. 
Till  then  the  usual  shafts  directed  against  her  virtue 
fall  harmlessly  on  either  side,  but  now  they  glance 
from  the  marriage  buckler  and  strike  the  daughter 
in  full  heart.  In  the  ball-room,  as  in  the  forest,  the 
female  is  most  easily  assailed  when  guarding  her 
young,  and  nowhere  in  the  whole  animal  kingdom 
is  this  fact  so  well  exemplified  as  in  Dublin  Castle. 


166  MUSLIN 

Lady  Georgina  lived  in  Harcourt  Street,  and  it 
was  on  her  way  thither  that  something  like  a  regret 
rose  up  in  Mrs.  Barton  that  she  had  (she  was  forced 
to  confess  it)  aroused  the  enmity  of  women,  and 
persistently. 

Lady  Georgina  Stapleton  was  Lord  Dungory's 
eldest  sister.  She,  too,  hated  Mrs.  Barton ;  but, 
being  poor  (Milord  used  to  call  himself  the  milch- 
cow),  she  found  herself,  like  the  Ladies  Cullen, 
occasionally  obliged  to  smile  upon  and  extend  a  wel- 
coming hand  to  the  family  enemy;  and  when  Mrs. 
Barton  came  to  Dublin  for  the  Castle  Season,  a  little 
pressure  was  put  upon  Lady  Georgina  to  obtain 
invitations  from  the  Chamberlain ;  the  ladies  ex- 
changed visits,  and  there  the  matter  ended,  as  Mrs. 
Barton  and  her  daughter  passed  through  Stephen's 
Green,  and  she  remembered  that  she  had  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  conceal  her  dislike  of  the  house  in 
Harcourt  Street,  and  some  of  the  hard  things  she 
had  said  when  standing  on  the  box-seat  of  a  drag  at 
Punchestown  Races  had  travelled  back  and  had 
found  a  lasting  resting-place  in  Lady  Georgina's 
wrathful  memory. 

'  This  is  considered  to  be  the  most  artistic  house 
in  Dublin,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  as  the  servant  showed 
them  upstairs. 

'  How  lovely  the  camellias  look,'  said  Olive. 

'  And  now,  Alice,  mind,  none  of  your  Liberalism 
in  this  house,  or  you  will  ruin  your  sister's 
chances.' 

Lady  Georgina  wore  a  wig,  or  her  hair  was 
arranged  so  as  to  look  like  one.  Fifty  years  had 
rubbed  away  much  of  her  youthful  ugliness  ■  and,  in 


MUSLIN  167 

the  delicate  twilight  of  her  rooms,  her  aristocratic 
bearing  might  be  mistaken  for  good  looks: 

Lady  Georgina  was  a  celebrated  needlewoman, 
and  she  was  now  begging  Lord  Kilcarney  to  assist 
her  at  a  charity  bazaar.  Few  people  had  yet 
arrived  ;  and  when  Harding  was  announced,  Mrs. 
Barton  whispered  : 

'  Here's  your  friend,  Alice ;  don't  miss  your  chance.' 

Then  every  moment  bevies  of  girls  came  in  and 
were  accommodated  with  seats,  and  if  possible  with 
young  men.  Teacups  were  sent  down  to  be  washed, 
and  the  young  men  were  passed  from  group  to 
group.  The  young  ladies  smiled  and  looked  delight- 
ful, and  spoke  of  dancing  and  tennis  until,  replying 
to  an  imperative  glance  from  their  chaperons,  from 
time  to  time  they  rose  to  leave  ;  but,  obeying  a 
look  of  supplication  from  their  hostess,  the  young 
men  remained. 

Lord  Kilcarney  had  been  hunted  desperately 
around  screens  and  over  every  ottoman  in  the  room  ; 
and  Lady  Georgina  had  proved  her  goodwill  in  pro- 
portion to  the  amount  of  assistance  she  had  lent  to 
her  friends  in  the  chase.  Long  ago  he  had  been 
forced  away  from  Olive.  Mrs.  Barton  endured  with 
stoical  indifference  the  scowls  of  her  hostess  ;  but  at 
length,  compelled  to  recognize  that  none  of  the 
accidents  attendant  on  the  handing  of  teacups  or 
the  moving  of  chairs  would  bring  him  back,  she  rose 
to  take  her  leave.  The  little  Marquis  was  on  his 
feet  in  a  moment,  and,  shaking  hands  with  her 
effusively,  he  promised  to  call  to  see  them  at  the 
Shelbourne.  A  glance  went  round ;  and  of  Mrs. 
Barton's  triumph  there  could  be  no  doubt. 


168  MUSLIN 

'  But  to-day's  success  is  often  a  prelude  to  to- 
morrow's defeat,'  was  Lady  Georgina's  comment,  and 
Mrs.  Barton  and  her  daughters  were  discussed  as 
they  walked  across  the  green  to  their  hotel.  Nor 
was  Lady  Georgina  altogether  a  false  prophet,  for 
next  day  Mrs.  Barton  found  the  Marquis's  cards  on 
her  table.  '  I'm  sorry  we  missed  him,'  she  said,  '  but 
we  haven't  a  minute  ;'  and,  calling  on  her  daughters 
to  follow,  she  dashed  again  into  the  whirl  of  a 
day  that  would  not  end  for  many  hours,  though  it 
had  begun  twelve  hours  ago — a  day  of  haste  and 
anticipation  it  had  been,  filled  with  cries  of  '  Mamma,' 
telegrams,  letters,  and  injunctions  not  to  forget  this 
and  that — a  day  whose  skirts  trailed  in  sneers  and 
criticisms,  a  hypocritical  and  deceitful  day,  a  day  of 
intrigue,  a  day  in  which  the  post-box  was  the  chief 
factor— a  great  day  withal. 

But  above  this  day,  and  above  all  other  days,  was 
the  day  that  took  them  spellbound  to  the  foot  of 
a  narrow  staircase,  a  humble  flight  seemingly,  but 
leading  to  a  temple  of  tightly-stretched  floorcloth, 
tall  wardrobes,  and  groups  and  lines  of  lay  figures  in 

eternally  ladylike  attitudes. 

'  Oh  !    how  do  you  do,   Mrs.   Barton  ?     We  have 

been  expecting  you  for  the  last  two  or  three  days. 

I  will  run  upstairs  and  tell  Mrs.  Symond  that  you  are 

here  ;  she  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you.' 

'  That  is   Miss   Cooper !'    explained    Mrs.   Barton. 

'  Everyone    knows    her ;    she    has    been    with    Mrs. 

Symond  many  years.     And,  as  for  dear  Mrs.  Symond, 

there  is    no   one  like    her.     She   knows    the  truth 

about  everybody.     Here  she  comes,'  and  Mrs.  Barton 

rushed   forward  and  embraced   a  thin  woman  with 

long  features. 


MUSLIN  169 

c  And  how  do  you  do,  dear  Mrs.  Barton,  and  how 
well  you  are  looking,  and  the  young  ladies  ?  I  see 
Miss  Olive  has  improved  since  she  was  in  Dublin.' 
(In  an  audible  whisper.)  '  Everyone  is  talking  about 
her.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  she'll  be  the  belle 
of  the  season.'  (In  a  still  audible,  but  lower  tone  of 
voice.)  'But  tell  me,  is  it  true  that ' 

'  Now,  now,  now  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  drowning  her 
words  in  cascades  of  silvery  laughter, '  I  know  nothing 
of  what  you're  saying  ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  no,  no — I  assure 
you.      I  will  not ' 

Then,  as  soon  as  the  ladies  had  recovered  their 
composure,  a  few  questions  were  asked  about  her 
Excellency,  the  prospects  of  the  Castle  season,  and 
the  fashions  of  the  year. 

'  And  now  tell  me,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  f  what  pretty 
things  have  you  that  would  make  up  nicely  for 
trains  ?' 

'  Trains,  Mrs.  Barton  ?  We  have  some  sweet 
things  that  would  make  up  beautifully  for  trains. 
Miss  Cooper,  will  you  kindly  fetch  over  that  case  of 
silks  that  we  had  over  yesterday  from  Paris  ?' 

'  The  young  ladies  must  be,  of  course,  in  white ; 
for  Miss  Olive  I  should  like,  I  think,  snowdrops ; 
for  you,  Mrs.  Barton,  I  am  uncertain  which  of  two 
designs  I  shall  recommend.  Now,  this  is  a  perfectly 
regal  material.' 

With  words  of  compliment  and  solicitation,  the 
black-dressed  assistant  displayed  the  armouries  of 
Venus — armouries  filled  with  the  deep  blue  of  mid- 
night, with  the  faint  tints  of  dawn,  with  strange 
flowers  and  birds,  with  moths,  and  moons,  and  stars. 
Lengths  of  white  silk  clear  as  the  notes  of  violins 


170  MUSLIN 

playing  in  a  minor  key ;  white  poplin  falling  into 
folds  statuesque  as  the  bass  of  a  fugue  by  Bach ; 
yards  of  ruby  velvet,  rich  as  an  air  from  Verdi  played 
on  the  piano ;  tender  green  velvet,  pastoral  as  haut- 
boys heard  beneath  trees  in  a  fair  Arcadian  vale ; 
blue  turquoise  faille  fanciful  as  the  tinkling  of 
a  guitar  twanged  by  a  Watteau  shepherd ;  gold 
brocade,  sumptuous  as  organ  tones  swelling  through 
the  jewelled  twilight  of  a  nave ;  scarves  and  trains 
of  midnight-blue  profound  as  the  harmonic  snoring 
of  a  bassoon ;  golden  daffodils  violent  as  the  sound 
of  a  cornet ;  bouquets  of  pink  roses  and  daisies, 
charmful  and  pure  as  the  notes  of  a  flute ;  white 
faille,  soft  draperies  of  tulle,  garlands  of  white  lilac, 
sprays  of  white  heather,  delicate  and  resonant  as 
the  treble  voices  of  children  singing  carols  in  dewy 
English  woods  ;  berthas,  flounces,  plumes,  stomachers, 
lappets,  veils,  frivolous  as  the  strains  of  a  German 
waltz  played  on  Liddell's  band. 

An  hour  passed,  but  the  difficulty  of  deciding  if 
Olive's  dress  should  be  composed  of  silk  or  Irish 
poplin  was  very  great,  for,  determined  that  all  should 
be  humiliated,  Mrs.  Barton  laid  her  plans  amid 
designs  for  night  and  morning ;  birds  fluttering 
through  leafy  trees,  birds  drowsing  on  bending 
boughs,  and  butterflies  folding  their  wings.  At  a 
critical  moment,  however,  an  assistant  announced 
that  Mrs.  Scully  was  waiting.  The  ladies  started ; 
desperate  effort  was  made ;  rosy  clouds  and  veils  of 
silver  tissue  wei-e  spoken  of;  but  nothing  could  be 
settled,  and  on  the  staircase  the  ladies  had  to  squeeze 
into  a  corner  to  allow  Violet  and  Mrs.  Scully  to  pass. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Olive  ?     How  do  you  do,  Alice  ? 


MUSLIN  171 

and  you,  Mrs.  Barton,  how  do  you  do  ?  And  what 
are  you  going  to  wear  ?  Have  you  decided  on  your 
dress  ?' 

1  Oh !  That  is  a  secret  that  could  be  told  to  no 
one  ;  oh,  not  for  worlds  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

f  I'm  sure  it  will  be  very  beautiful,'  replied  Mrs. 
Scully,  with  just  a  reminiscence  of  the  politeness  of 
the  Galway  grocery  business  in  her  voice. 

*  I  hear  you  have  taken  a  house  in  Fitzwilliam 
Square  for  the  season  ?'  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

'  Yes,  we  are  very  comfortable  ;  you  must  come 
and  see  us.     You  are  at  the  Shelbourne,  I  believe  ?' 

f  Come  to  tea  with  us,'  cried  Violet.  '  We  are 
always  at  home  about  five.' 

'  We  shall  be  delighted,'  returned  Mrs.  Barton. 

Mrs.  Scully's  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Symond  was 
of  the  slightest ;  but,  knowing  that  claims  to  fashion 
in  Dublin  are  judged  by  the  intimacy  you  affect 
with  the  dressmaker,  she  shook  her  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  addressed  her  as  dear  Mrs.  Symond.  To 
the  Christian  name  of  Helen  none  less  than  a 
Countess  dare  to  aspire. 

*  And  how  well  you  are  looking,  dear  Mrs.  Symond ; 
and  when  are  you  going  to  take  your  daughters  to 
the  Castle  ?' 

'  Q\\,  not  for  some  time  yet;  my  eldest  is  only 
sixteen.' 

Mrs.  Symonds  had  three  daughters  to  bring  out, 
and  she  hoped  when  her  feet  were  set  on  the 
redoubtable  ways  of  Cork  Hill,  her  fashionable 
customers  would  extend  to  her  a  cordial  helping 
hand.  Mrs.  Symonds'  was  one  of  the  myriad  little 
schemes  with  which  Dublin  is  honeycombed,  and 


172  MUSLIN 

although  she  received  Mrs.  Scully's  familiarities 
somewhat  coldly,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
Violet.  The  insidious  thinness  of  the  girl's  figure, 
and  her  gay,  winsome  look  interested  her,  and,  as  if 
speaking  to  herself,  she  said  : 

'  You  will  want  something  very  sweet ;  something 
quite  pure  and  lovely  for  Miss  Scully  ?' 

Mother  and  daughter  were  instantly  all  attention, 
and  Mrs.  Symond  continued  : 

'  Let  me  see,  I  have  some  Surat  silk  that  would 
make  up  sweetly.  Miss  Cooper,  will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  fetch  those  rolls  of  Surat  silk  we  received 
yesterday  from  Paris  ?' 

Then,  beautiful  as  a  flower  harvesting,  the  hues 
and  harmonies  of  earth,  ocean,  and  sky  fell  before 
the  ravished  eyes.  The  white  Surat  silk,  chaste, 
beautiful,  delicious  as  that  presentiment  of  shared 
happiness  which  fills  a  young  girl's  mind  when  her 
fancy  awakens  in  the  soft  spring  sunlight ;  the 
white  faille  with  tulle  and  garlands  of  white  lilac, 
delicate  and  only  as  sensuous  as  the  first  meetings 
of  sweethearts,  when  the  may  is  white  in  the  air 
and  the  lilac  is  in  bloom  on  the  lawn ;  trains  of 
blue  sapphire  broche  looped  with  blue  ostrich 
feathers,  seductive  and  artificial  as  a  boudoir  plunged 
in  a  dream  of  Ess.  bouquet ;  dove-coloured  velvet 
trains  adorned  with  tulips  and  tied  with  bows  of 
brown  and  pink — temperate  as  the  love  that  endures 
when  the  fiery  day  of  passion  has  gone  down ; 
bodices  and  trains  of  daffodil  silk,  embroidered  with 
shaded  maple-leaves,  impure  as  lamp-lit  and  pat- 
chouli-scented couches ;  trains  of  white  velouture 
festooned  with  tulle  ;  trails  of  snowdrops,  icy  as  lips 


MUSLIN  173 

that  have  been  bought,  and  cold  as  a  life  that  lives 
in  a  name. 

The  beautiful  silks  hissed  as  they  came  through 
the  hands  of  the  assistants,  cat-like  the  velvet  foot- 
falls of  the  velvet  fell ;  it  was  a  witches'  Sabbath, 
and  out  of  this  terrible  caldron  each  was  to  draw 
her  share  of  the  world's  gifts.  Smiling  and  genial, 
Mrs.  Symond  stirred  the  ingredients  with  a  yard 
measure ;  the  girls  came  trembling,  doubting,  hesi- 
tating ;  and  the  anxious  mothers  saw  what  remained 
of  their  jeopardized  fortunes  sliding  in  a  thin  golden 
stream  into  the  flaming  furnace  that  the  demon  of 
Cork  Hill  blew  with  unintermittent  breath. 

Secrets,  what  secrets  were  held  on  the  subject  of 
the  presentation  dresses !  The  obscure  Hill  was 
bound  with  a  white  frill  of  anticipation.  Olive's 
fame  had  gone  forth.  She  was  admitted  to  be  the 
new  Venus,  and  Lord  Kilcarney  was  spoken  of  as 
likely  to  yield  to  her  the  coveted  coronet.  Would 
lie  marry  her  without  so  much  as  looking  at  another 
girl  ?  was  the  question  on  every  lip,  and  in  the 
jealousy  thus  created  the  appraisers  of  Violet's 
beauty  grew  bolder.  Her  thinness  was  condoned, 
and  her  refinement  insisted  upon.  Nor  were  May 
Gould  and  her  chances  overlooked  by  the  gossips  of 
Merrion  Square.  Her  flirtation  with  Fred  Scully  was 
already  a  topic  of  conversation. 

Alice  knew  she  was  spoken  of  pityingly,  but  she 
hungered  little  after  the  praise  of  the  Dubliners, 
and  preferred  to  stay  at  home  and  talk  to  Harding 
in  the  ladies'  drawing-room  rather  than  follow  her 
mother  and  sister  in  their  wild  hunt  after  Lord 
Kilcarney.  Through  the  afternoon  teas  of  Merrion 
Square  and  Stephen's  Green  the  chase  went  merrily. 


174  MUSLIN 


XVII 


On  the  night  of  the  Drawing- Room,  February  20, 
1882,  the  rain  rushed  along  the  streets;  wind,  too, 
had  risen,  and,  threatening  to  tear  every  window 
from  its  sash,  it  careered  in  great  gusts.  Sky  there 
was  none,  nor  sight  of  anything  save  when  the  light- 
ning revealed  the  outline  of  the  housetops.  The 
rattling  and  the  crashing  of  the  thunder  was 
fearsome,  and  often,  behind  their  closely  drawn 
curtains,  the  girls  trembled,  and,  covering  their 
faces  with  their  hands,  forgot  the  article  of  clothing 
they  were  in  search  of.  In  their  rooms  all  was  warm 
and  snug,  and  gay  with  firelight  and  silk ;  the 
chaperons  had  whispered  that  warm  baths  were 
advisable,  and  along  the  passages  the  ladies'-maids 
passed  hurriedly,  carrying  cans  of  hot  water,  sponges, 
and  drying-sheets. 

Alice  and  Olive  slept  in  two  rooms  on  the  third 
floor,  on  either  side  of  their  mother ;  May  and  Mrs. 
Gould  were  on  the  fourth,  and  next  to  May  was 
Fred  Scully,  who,  under  the  pretext  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  his  agreeing  with  his  mother  concerning 
the  use  of  a  latch-key,  had  lately  moved  into  the 
hotel.  May  was  deeply  concerned  in  Fred's  griev- 
ance, and,  discussing  it,  or  the  new  Shelbourne 
scandal — the  loves  of  the  large  lady  and  the  little 
man  at  the  other  end  of  the  corridor — they  lingered 
about  each  other's  bedroom-doors.  Alice  could  now 
hear  them  talking  as  they  descended  the  staircase 
together ;  then  a  burst  of  smothered  laughter,  and 
May  came  in  to  see  her. 

'  Oh,  how  nice  you  look  !' 


MUSLIN  175 

'  If  you  don't  "mash"  Mr.  Harding  to-night,  he'll 
be  a  tough  one  indeed.  Did  I  tell  you  I  was  talking 
to  him  yesterday  in  the  ladies'  drawing-room  ?  He  is 
very  enticing,  but  I  can't  quite  make  him  out :  I 
think  he  despises  us  all ;  all  but  you  ;  about  you  he 
said  all  kinds  of  nice  things — that  you  were  so 
clever,  and  nice,  and  amusing.  And  tell  me,  dear,' 
said  May,  in  her  warm,  affectionate  way,  '  do  you 
really  like  him — you  know  what  I  mean  ?' 

May's  eyes  and  voice  were  so  full  of  significance 
that  to  pretend  to  misunderstand  was  impossible. 

'  I  like  Mr.  Harding  well  enough.  It  is  very 
pleasant  to  have  him  to  talk  to.  I  am  sure  I  don't 
want  to  run  down  my  own  sex — there  are  plently 
only  too  anxious  to  do  that — but  I  am  afraid  that 
there  is  not  a  girl  in  Dublin  who  thinks  of  anything 
except  how  she  is  to  get  married.' 

'  I  don't,  know  about  that,'  said  May,  a  little 
offended.  '  I  suppose  if  you  think  of  a  man  at  all, 
you  think  of  how  he  likes  you.' 

The  defiant  tone  in  which  these  words  were 
spoken  was  surprising  ;  and,  for  a  moment,  Alice 
stood  staring  blankly  at  this  superb  cream-fleshed 
girl,  superb  in  her  dress  of  cream  faille,  her  sensual 
beauty  poetized  by  the  long  veils  which  hung  like 
gossamer-webs  from  the  coils  of  her  copper-gleaming 
hair. 

'I  am  afraid,  May,'  she  said,  'that  you  think  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  such  things.  I  don't  say 
anything  against  Mr.  Scully,  but  I  think  it  right  to 
tell  you  that  he  is  considered  a  very  dangerous 
young  man  ;  and  I  am  sure  it  does  a  girl  no  good 
to  be  seen  with  him.     It  was  he  who  .   .   .' 


176  MUSLIN 

'  Now  I'll  not  hear  you  abuse  Fred,'  cried  May. 
'  We  are  great  friends  ;  I  like  you  better  than  any 
other  girl,  and  if  you  value  our  friendship,  you'll  not 
speak  to  me  again  like  this.  I  wouldn't  put  up  with 
it,  no,  not  from  my  own  mother.' 

The  girl  moved  towards  the  door  hastily,  but 
Alice  laid  her  hand  on  her  arm,  saying : 

'  You  mustn't  be  angry,  May ;  perhaps  you're 
right ;  I  shouldn't  meddle  in  things  that  don't 
concern  me  ;  but  then  we  have  been  so  long  friends 
that  I  couldn't  help ' 

'  I  know,  I  know,'  the  girl  answered,  overcome  as 
it  were  by  an  atmosphere.  '  You  were  speaking 
only  for  my  good ;  but  if  you're  friends  with  a 
person,  you  can't  stand  by  and  hear  them  abused. 
I  know  people  speak  badly  of  Fred  ;  but  then  people 
are  so  jealous — and  they  are  all  jealous  of  Fred.' 

The  girls  examined  each  other's  dresses,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  long  silence  May  said  : 

e  What  an  extraordinary  thing  this  Drawing- Room 
is  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it.  Just  fancy  going 
to  all  this  expense  to  be  kissed  by  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant — a  man  one  never  saw  before.  Will 
you  feel  ashamed  when  he  kisses  you  ?' 

( Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  have  thought  much 
about  it,'  said  Alice,  laughing.  '  I  suppose  it  doesn't 
matter,  it  is  only  a  ceremony,  not  a  real  kiss.' 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Barton's  voice  was  heard 
calling  :  f  Now,  Alice,  Alice,  where  are  you  ?  We 
are  waiting  for  you  !  Make  haste,  for  goodness'  sake  ; 
we  are  very  late  as  it  is.' 

The  trail  of  a  sachet-scented  petticoat  could  be 
detected  on  this  length  of  Brussels  carpet,  the  acrid 


MUSLIN  177 

vulgarity  of  eau  de  Cologne  hung  like  a  curtain 
before  an  open  door,  a  vision  of  white  silk  gleamed 
for  a  moment  as  it  fled  from  room  to  room  :  men  in 
a  strange  garb — black  velvet  and  steel  buttons — 
hurried  away,  tripping  over  their  swords,  furtively 
ashamed  of  their  stockinged  calves.  On  the  first 
landing,  about  the  winter-garden,  a  crowd  of  German 
waiters,  housemaids,  billiard-players  with  cigars  in 
their  teeth  and  cues  in  their  hands,  had  collected  ; 
underneath,  in  the  hall,  the  barmaids,  and  old  ladies, 
wrapped  up  in  rugs  and  shawls  to  save  them  from 
the  draughts,  were  criticizing  the  dresses.  Olive's 
name  was  on  every  lip,  and  to  see  her  all 
were  breathless  with  expectation  ;  her  matrimonial 
prospects  were  discussed,  and  Lord  Kilcarney  was 
openly  spoken  of.  '  Ah  !  here  she  is !  there  she 
is  !'  was  whispered.  The  head-porter,  wild  with 
excitement,  shouted  for  Mrs.  Barton's  carriage  ; 
three  under-porters  distended  huge  umbrellas;  the 
door  was  opened,  an  immense  wind  tore  through  the 
hall,  sending  the  old  ladies  flying  back  to  their 
sitting-room,  and  the  Bartons,  holding  their  hair  and 
their  trains,  rushed  across  the  wet  pavement  and 
took  refuge  in  the  brougham. 

•  Did  one  ever  see  such  weather  ?'  said  Mrs.  Barton. 
'  I  hope  your  hair  isn't  ruffled,  Olive  ?' 

'  No,  mamma,  I  think  it  is  all  right.' 

Reassured,  Mrs.  Barton  continued  :  '  I  don't  think 
there  ever  was  a  country  so  hateful  as  Ireland. 
What  with  rain  and  Land  League.  I  wonder  why 
we  live  here  !  Did  you  notice  the  time,  Alice,  as 
we  left  the  hotel  ?' 

'Yes,  mamma  ;  it  was  twenty-five  minutes  to  ten.' 

M 


178  MUSLIN 

'  Oh  !  we  are  very  late  ;  we  shan't  be  there  before 
ten.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  get  there  about  half- 
past  nine  ;  the  Drawing- Room  doesn't  begin  before 
eleven  ;  but  if  you  can  get  into  the  first  lot  you  can 
stand  at  the  entrance  of  Patrick's  Hall.  I  see,  Alice, 
your  friend  Harding  is  going  to  the  Drawing-Room. 
Now,  if  you  do  what  I  tell  you,  you  won't  miss  him  ; 
for  it  does  look  so  bad  to  see  a  girl  alone,  just  as  if 
she  was  unable  to  get  a  man.' 

While  Mrs.  Barton  continued  to  advise  her  girls, 
the  carriage  rolled  rapidly  along  Stephen's  Green. 
It  had  now  turned  into  Grafton  Street ;  and  on  the 
steep,  rain-flooded  asphalte,  they  narrowly  escaped 
an  accident.  The  coachman,  however,  steadied  his 
horses,  and  soon  the  long  colonnades  of  the  Bank 
of  Ireland  were  seen  on  the  left.  From  this  point 
they  were  no  longer  alone,  and  except  when  a  crash 
of  thunder  drowned  every  other  sound,  the  rattling 
of  wheels  was  heard  behind  and  in  front  of  them. 
Carriages  came  from  every  side :  the  night  was  alive 
with  flashing  lamps ;  a  glimpse  of  white  fur  or  silk, 
the  red  breast  of  a  uniform,  the  gold  of  an  epaulette, 
were  seen,  and  thinking  of  the  block  that  would 
take  place  on  the  quays,  the  coachmen  whipped  up 
their  horses ;  but  soon  the  ordering  voices  of  the 
mantled  and  mounted  policemen  were  heard,  and 
the  carriages  came  to  a  full  stop. 

'  We  are  very  late  ;  hundreds  will  pass  before  us,' 
said  Mrs.  Barton  despairingly,  as  she  watched  the 
lines  of  silk-laden  carriages  that  seemed  to  be  pass- 
ing them  by.  But  it  was  difficult  to  make  sure  of 
anything ;  and  fearful  of  soiling  their  gloves,  they 
refrained  from  touching  the  breath-misted  windows. 


MUSLIN  179 

Despite  the  weather  the  streets  were  lined  with 
vagrants,  patriots,  waifs,  idlers  of  all  sorts  and  kinds. 
Plenty  of  girls  of  sixteen  and  eighteen  came  out  to 
see  the  'finery.'  Poor  little  things  in  battered 
bonnets  and  draggled  skirts,  who  would  dream  upon 
ten  shillings  a  week ;  a  drunken  mother  striving  to 
hush  a  child  that  cries  beneath  a  dripping  shawl ;  a 
harlot  embittered  by  feelings  of  commercial  resent- 
ment ;  troops  of  labourers ;  hang-dog  faces,  thin 
coats,  torn  shirts  ;  Irish- Americans,  sinister  faced, 
and  broad-brimmed.  Never  were  poverty  and  wealth 
brought  into  plainer  proximity.  In  the  broad  glare 
of  the  carriage  lights  the  shape  of  every  feature, 
even  the  colour  of  the  eyes,  every  glance,  every 
detail  of  dress,  every  stain  of  misery  were  revealed 
to  the  silken  exquisites  who,  a  little  frightened, 
strove  to  hide  themselves  within  the  scented 
shadows  of  their  broughams ;  and  in  like  manner 
the  bloom  on  every  aristocratic  cheek,  the  glitter  of 
every  diamond,  the  richness  of  every  plume,  were 
visible  to  the  wondering  eyes  of  those  who  stood 
without  in  the  wet  and  the  cold. 

f  I  wish  they  wouldn't  stare  so,'  said  Mrs.  Barton ; 
'  one  would  think  they  were  a  lot  of  hungry  children 
looking  into  a  sweatmeat  shop.  The  police  ought 
really  to  prevent  it.' 

'  And  how  wicked  those  men  in  the  big  hats 
look,'  said  Olive  ;  '  I'm  sure  they  would  rob  us  if  they 
only  dared.' 

At  last  the  order  came  that  the  carriages  were  to 
move  on,  and  they  rolled  on,  now  blocked  under  the 
black  rain-dripping  archway  of  the  Castle  yard,  now 
delayed  as  they  laboriously  made   the   tour  of  the 


180  MUSLIN 

quadrangle.  Olive  doubted  if  her  turn  would  ever 
come  ;  but,  by  slow  degrees,  each  carriage  discharged 
its  cargo  of  silk,  and  at  last  Mrs.  Barton  and  her 
daughters  found  themselves  in  the  vestibule,  taking 
numbers  for  their  wraps  at  the  cloak-rooms  placed 
on  either  side  of  the  stairway. 

The  slender  figures  ascending  to  tiny  naked 
shoulders,  presented  a  piquant  contrast  with  the 
huge,  black  Assyrian,  bull -like  policemen,  who 
guarded  the  passage,  and  reduced,  by  contrast,  to 
almost  doll-like  proportions  the  white  creatures  who 
went  up  the  great  stairway.  Overhead  an  artificial 
plant,  some  twenty  feet  wide,  spread  a  decorative 
greenness ;  the  walls  were  lined  with  rifles,  and  at 
regular  intervals,  in  lieu  of  pictures,  were  set  stars 
made  out  of  swords.  There  were  also  three  suits  of 
plate  armour,  and  the  grinning  of  the  helmets  of 
old  -  time  contrasted  with  the  bearskin  -  shrouded 
faces  of  the  red  guardsmen.  And  through  all  this 
military  display  the  white  ware  tripped  past 
powdered  and  purple-coated  footmen,  splendid  in 
the  splendour  of  pink  calves  and  salmon-coloured 
breeches. 

As  the  white  mass  of  silk  pushed  along  the  white- 
painted  corridor,  the  sense  of  ceremony  that  had  till 
then  oppressed  it,  evaporated  in  the  fumes  of  the 
blazing  gas,  and  something  like  a  battle  began  in 
the  blue  drawing-room.  Heat  and  fatigue  soon  put 
an  end  to  all  coquetting  between  the  sexes.  The 
beautiful  silks  were  hidden  by  the  crowd  ;  only  the 
shoulders  remained,  and,  to  appease  their  terrible 
ennui,  the  men  gazed  down  the  backs  of  the  women's 
dresses.      Shoulders    were    there,    of  all    tints   and 


MUSLIN  181 

shapes.  Indeed,  it  was  like  a  vast  rosary,  alive  with 
white,  pink,  and  cream-coloured  flowers  ;  of  Marechal 
Niels,  Souvenir  de  Malmaisons,  Mademoiselle  Eugene 
Verdiers,  Aimee  Vibert  Scandens.  Sweetly  turned, 
adolescent  shoulders,  blush-white,  smooth  and  even 
as  the  petals  of  a  Marquise  Mortemarle  ;  the  strong, 
commonly  turned  shoulders,  abundant  and  free  as 
the  fresh  rosy  pink  of  the  Anna  Alinuff ;  the  droop- 
ing white  shoulders,  full  of  falling  contours  as  a  pale 
Madame  Lacharme ;  the  chlorotic  shoulders,  deadly 
white,  of  the  almost  greenish  shade  that  is  found  in 
a  Princess  Clementine ;  the  pert,  the  dainty  little 
shoulders,  filled  with  warm  pink  shadows,  pretty 
and  compact  as  Countess  Cecile  de  Chabrillant ;  the 
large  heavy  shoulders  full  of  vulgar  madder  tints, 
coarse,  strawberry-colour,  enormous  as  a  Paul  Neron; 
clustering  white  shoulders,  grouped  like  the  blossoms 
of  an  Aimee  Vibert  Scandens,  and,  just  in  front  of 
me,  under  my  eyes,  the  flowery,  the  voluptuous,  the 
statuesque  shoulders  of  a  tall  blonde  woman  of 
thirty,  whose  flesh  is  full  of  the  exquisite  peach-like 
tones  of  a  Mademoiselle  Eugene  Verdier,  blooming 
in  all  its  pride  of  summer  loveliness. 

To  make  way  for  this  enormous  crowd,  the 
Louis  XV.  sofas  and  arm-chairs  had  been  pushed 
against  the  walls,  and  an  hour  passed  wearily,  in  all 
its  natural  impudence,  in  this  beautiful  drawing- 
room,  the  brain  aching  with  dusty  odour  of  poudre 
de  riz,  and  the  many  acidities  of  evaporating  per- 
fume ;  the  sugary  sweetness  of  the  blondes,  the 
salt  flavours  of  the  brunettes,  and  this  allegro  move- 
ment of  odours  was  interrupted  suddenly  by  the 
garlicky  andante,    deep   as    the  pedal   notes  of  an 


182  MUSLIN 

organ,  that  the  perspiring  armpits  of  a  fat  chaperon 
exhaled  slowly. 

At  last  there  was  a  move  forwards,  and  a  sigh 
of  relief,  a  grunt  of  satisfaction,  broke  from  the 
oppressed  creatures  ;  but  a  line  of  guardsmen  was 
pressing  from  behind,  and  the  women  were  thrown 
hither  and  thither  into  the  arms  and  on  to  the  backs 
of  soldiers,  police  officers,  county  inspectors,  and 
Castle  underlings.  Now  a  lady  turns  pale,  and 
whispers  to  her  husband  that  she  is  going  to  faint ; 
now  a  young  girl's  petticoats  have  become  entangled 
in  the  moving  mass  of  legs  !  She  cries  aloud  for 
help  ;  her  brother  expostulates  with  those  around. 
He  is  scarcely  heeded.  And  the  struggle  grows  still 
more  violent  when  it  becomes  evident  that  the 
guardsmen  are  about  to  bring  down  the  bar ;  and, 
begging  a  florid-faced  attorney  to  unloose  his  sword, 
which  had  become  entangled  in  her  dress,  Mrs. 
Barton  called  on  her  daughter,  and,  slipping  under 
the  raised  arms,  they  found  themselves  suddenly  in 
a  square,  sombre  room,  full  of  a  rich,  brown  twilight. 
In  one  corner  there  was  a  bureau,  where  an  attendant 
served  out  blank  cards  ;  in  another  the  white  plumes 
nodded  against  the  red  glare  that  came  from  the 
throne-room,  whence  Liddell's  band  was  heard  play- 
ing waltz  tunes,  and  the  stentorian  tones  of  the 
Chamberlain's  voice  called  the  ladies'  names. 

'  Have  you  got  your  cards  ?'  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

'  I  have  got  mine,'  said  Olive. 

'  And  I  have  got  mine,'  said  Alice. 

1  Well,  you  know  what  to  do  ?  You  give  your  card 
to  the  aide-de-camp,  he  passes  it  on  and  spreads  out 
your  train,  and  you  walk  right  up  to  His  Excellency  ; 


MUSLIN  183 

he  kisses  you  on  both  cheeks,  you  curtsy,  and,  at 
the  far  door,  two  aides-de-camp  pick  up  your  tram 
and  place  it  on  your  arm.' 

The  girls  continued  to  advance,  experiencing  the 
while  the  nerve  atrophy,  the  systolic  emotion  of 
communicants,  who,  when  the  bell  rings,  approach 
the  altar-rails  to  receive  God  within  their  mouths. 

The  massive,  the  low-hanging,  the  opulently 
twisted  gold  candelabra,  the  smooth  lustre  of  the 
marble  columns  are  evocative  of  the  persuasive 
grandeur  of  a  cathedral ;  and,  deep  in  the  darkness 
of  the  pen,  a  vast  congregation  of  peeresses  and 
judges  watch  the  ceremony  in  devout  collectiveness. 
How  symmetrical  is  the  place  !  A  red,  a  well- 
trimmed  bouquet  of  guardsmen  has  been  set  in  the 
middle  of  the  Turkey  carpet ;  around  the  throne  a 
semicircle  of  red  coats  has  been  drawn,  and  above  it 
flow  the  veils,  the  tulle,  the  skirts  of  the  ladies-of- 
honour — they  seem  like  white  clouds  dreaming  on  a 
bank  of  scarlet  poppies — and  the  long  sad  legs,  clad 
in  maroon-coloured  breeches,  is  the  Lord-Lieutenant, 
the  teeth  and  the  diamonds  on  his  right  is  Her 
Excellency.  And  now  a  lingering  survival  of  the 
terrible  Droit  de  Seigneur — diminished  and  attenu- 
ated, but  still  circulating  through  our  modern  years 
— this  ceremony,  a  pale  ghost  of  its  former  self,  is 
performed  ;  and,  having  received  a  kiss  on  either 
cheek,  the  debutantes  are  free  to  seek  their  bridal 
beds  in  Patrick's  Hall. 

1  Miss  Olive  Barton,  presented  by  Mrs.  Barton  !' 
shouted  the  Chamberlain. 

Olive  abandoned  her  train  to  the  aides-de-camp  ; 
she  saw  their  bent  backs,  felt  their  nimble  fingers 


184  MUSLIN 

exhibiting  this  dress  whereon  Mrs.  Barton  and  Mrs. 
Symond  had  for  days  been  expending  all  the  poetry 
of  their  natures.  What  white  wonder,  what  manifold 
marvel  of  art !  Dress  of  snow  satin,  skirt  quite  plain 
in  front.  Bodice  and  train  of  white  poplin  ;  the 
latter  wrought  with  patterns  representing  night  and 
morning  :  a  morning  made  of  silver  leaves  with 
silver  birds  fluttering  through  leafy  trees,  butterflies 
sporting  among  them,  and  over  all  a  sunrise  worked 
in  gold  and  silver  thread  ;  then  on  the  left  side  the 
same  sun  sank  amid  rosy  clouds,  and  there  butter- 
flies slept  with  folded  wing,  and  there  birds  roosted 
on  bending  boughs ;  veils  of  silver  tissue  softened 
the  edges  of  the  train,  silver  stars  gleamed  in  the 
corn-coloured  hair,  the  long  hands,  gloved  with 
white  undressed  kid,  carried  a  silver  fan  ;  she  was 
adorably  beautiful  and  adorably  pale,  and  she 
floated  through  the  red  glare,  along  the  scarlet  line, 
to  the  weary-looking  man  in  maroon  breeches,  like 
some  wonderful  white  bird  of  downy  plumage.  He 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks ;  and  she  passed  away 
to  the  farther  door,  where  her  train  was  caught  up 
and  handed  to  her  by  two  aides-de-camp.  He  had 
seemed  to  salute  her  with  deference  and  warmth  ; 
his  kiss  was  more  than  ceremonial,  and  eager  looks 
passed  between  the  ladies-of-honour  standing  on  the 
estrade ;  the  great  bouquet  of  red-coats  placed  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  animated  by  one  desire, 
turned  its  sixteen  heads  to  gaze  after  the  wonderful 
vision  of  blonde  beauty  that  had  come — that  had 
gone.  Mrs.  Barton  experienced  an  instant  thrill  of 
triumph,  and  advanced  into  the  throne. 

In  the  composition  of  her  dress  she  had  given 


MUSLIN  185 

range  to  her  somewhat  florid  taste.  The  front  was 
brocade,  laid  upon  a  ground  of  grey-pink,  shot  with 
orange,  and  the  effect  was  such  as  is  seen  when  the 
sun  hangs  behind  a  lowering  grey  cloud,  tinged  with 
pink.  On  this  were  wonderful  soft-coloured  flowers, 
yellow  melting  into  pink,  green  fading  to  madder- 
like tints.  The  bodice  and  the  train  were  of  gold- 
brown  velvet  that  matched  the  gold-brown  of  the 
hair.  Mrs.  Barton  was  transformed  from  the  usual 
Romney  portrait  to  one  by  Sir  Peter  Lely ;  and 
when  she  made  her  curtsy,  Her  Excellency's  face 
contracted,  and  the  ladies-of-honour  whispered : 
'  The  harm  she  does  her  daughters.  ...  I 
wonder  .  .  .' 

( Miss  Violet  Scully,  presented  by  Mrs.  Scully,' 
shouted  the  Chamberlain. 

Now  there  was  an  admixture  of  curiosity  in  the 
admiration  accorded  to  Violet.  Hers  was  not  the 
plain  appealing  of  Olive's  Greek  statue-like  beauty  ; 
it  was  rather  the  hectic  erethism  of  painters  and 
sculptors  in  a  period  preceding  the  apogee  of  an 
art.  She  was  a  statuette  in  biscuit  after  a  design 
by  Andrea  Mantegna.  But  the  traces  of  this  exquisite 
atavism  were  now  almost  concealed  in  the  supreme 
modernity  of  her  attire.  From  the  tiny  waist  trailed 
yards  of  white  faille,  trimmed  with  tulle  ruchings, 
frecked  as  a  meadow  with  faintly-tinted  daisies ; 
the  hips  were  engarlanded  with  daisies,  and  the 
flowers  melted  and  bloomed  amid  snows  of  faille 
and  tulle. 

The  Lord- Lieutenant  leaned  forward  to  kiss  her, 
but  at  that  moment  of  his  kiss  the  thunder  crashed 
so  loudly  that  he  withdrew  from  her,  and  so  abruptly 


186  MUSLIN 

that  Her  Excellency  looked  surprised.  The  incident 
passed,  however,  almost  unperceived.  So  loud  was 
the  thunder,  everybody  was  thinking  of  dynamite, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  even  the  voluptuous 
strains  of  Liddell's  band  could  calm  their  inquietude. 
Nevertheless  the  Chamberlain  continued  to  shout : 

'  Lady  Sarah  Cullen,  Lady  Jane  Cullen,  Mrs. 
Scully,  presented  by  Lady  Sarah  Cullen.' 

Then  came  a  batch  of  people  whom  no  one  knew, 
and  in  the  front  of  these  the  aides-de-camp  allowed 
Alice  to  pass  on  to  His  Excellency.  She  was  prettily 
dressed,  dragging  after  her  a  train  of  white  faille 
trimmed  with  sprays  of  white  heather  and  tulle,  the 
petticoat  being  beautifully  arranged  with  folded 
draperies  of  crepe  de  Chine. 

A  number  of  ladies  had  collected  in  the  farther 
ante-room,  and,  in  lines,  they  stood  watching  the 
effluent  tide  of  satin  and  silk  discharging  its  volume 
into  the  spaces  of  Patrick's  Hall. 


XVIII 

'  I  wish  Alice  would  make  haste,  and  not  keep  us 
waiting.  I  suppose  she  has  got  behind  a  crowd. 
Here  are  the  Scullys  ;  let's  hide,  they  don't  know 
a  creature,  and  will  hang  on  us.' 

Olive  and  Mrs.  Barton  tried  to  slip  out  of  sight, 
but  they  were  too  late  ;  and  a  moment  after,  looking 
immense  in  a  train  and  bodice  of  Lyons  velvet, 
Mrs.  Scully  came  up  and  accosted  them. 

'  And  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Barton  ? '  she  said, 
with  a  desperate  effort  to  make  herself  agreeable  ; 


MUSLIN  187 

'  I  must  congratulate  you.  Everyone  is  admiring 
your  dress  ;  I  assure  you  your  train  looked  perfectly 
regal.' 

'  I  am  glad  you  like  it/  replied  Mrs.  Barton  ;  '  but 
what  do  you  think  of  Olive?  Do  you  like  her 
dress  ?' 

(  Oh,  Olive  has  no  need  of  my  praises.  If  I  were 
not  afraid  of  making  her  too  vain  I  would  tell  her 
that  all  Dublin  is  talking  of  her.  Indeed,  I  heard 
a  gentleman  say — a  gentleman  who,  I  believe,  writes 
for  the  papers — that  she  will  be  in  the  World  or 
Truth  next  week  as  the  belle  of  the  season.  None 
of  the  other  young  ladies  will  have  a  chance  with 
her.' 

1  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Barton,  laughing  merrily  ;  f  haven't  you  got  your 
Violet  ? — whom,  by  the  way,  you  have  transformed 
into  a  beautiful  daisy.  It  will  be,  perhaps,  not  the 
Rose  nor  the  Olive  that  will  carry  off  the  prize,  but 
the  daisy.' 

Violet  glanced  sharply  at  Mrs.  Barton,  and  there 
was  hate  in  the  glance ;  for,  although  her  mother 
did  not,  she  understood  well  what  was  meant  by  the 
allusion  to  the  daisy,  the  humblest  of  the  earth's 
flowers. 

The  appearance,  however,  of  Lord  Kilcarney 
brought  the  conversation  to  a  close  ;  and,  not  know- 
ing how  to  address  him,  Olive  laughed  beautifully 
from  behind  her  silver  fan.  They  entered  Patrick's 
Hall,  where  Lord  Dungory,  Lord  Rosshill,  and 
others  were  waiting  to  receive  Mrs.  Barton,  who 
sought  for  a  prominent  seat,  and  dealing  out  pearly 
laughs  and  winsome  compliments  to  her  court,  she 


188  MUSLIN 

watched  Olive,  who,  according  to  orders,  had  taken 
Lord  Kil carney  to  sit  on  the  highest  of  the  series 
of  benches  that  lined  one  side  of  the  room,  which 
she  did,  and  for  a  moment  Mrs.  Barton  felt  as  if 
she  held  Dublin  under  her  satin  shoe.  Alice  was 
her  only  trouble.  What  would  she  do  with  this 
gawk  of  a  girl  ?  But  soon  even  this  difficulty  was 
solved,  for  Harding  came  up  and  asked  her  if  he 
might  take  her  to  get  an  ice. 

1  How  absurd  we  looked  dressed  up  in  this  way,' 
said  Harding  ;  '  look  at  that  attorney  and  the  court 
sword.  It  would  be  just  as  logical  to  stick  a  quill 
pen  behind  the  ear  of  a  fat  pig.' 

'  Well,  the  sword — I  confess  I  don't  see  much 
meaning  in  that ;  but  the  rest  of  the  dress  is  well 
enough.  I  don't  see  why  one  style  of  dress  should 
be  more  absurd  than  another,  unless  it  is  because  it 
isn't  the  fashion.' 

'  Yes,  but  that  is  just  the  reason :  just  fancy 
dressing  oneself  up  in  the  costume  of  a  bygone 
time.' 

'And  is  everything  that  isn't  the  fashion  ridicu- 
lous ?' 

'  Ah,  there,  I  fancy,  you  have  the  best  of  the 
argument.  Waiter,  a  strawberry  ice.  But  did  you 
say  you  would  have  strawberry  ?' 

'  I  don't  think  I  did,  for  I  prefer  lemon.' 
The  centre  of  the  ceiling  was  filled  with  an  oval 
picture  representing  St.  Patrick  receiving  Pagans 
into  the  true  faith.  The  walls  were  white  painted, 
the  panels  were  gold-listed.  There  were  pillars  at 
both  ends  of  the  room,  and  in  a  top  gallery,  behind 
a  curtain    of  evergreen   plants,  Liddell's   orchestra 


MUSLIN  189 

continued  to  pour  an  uninterrupted  flood  of  waltz 
melody  upon  the  sea  of  satin,  silk,  poplin,  and  velvet 
that  surged  around  the  buffet,  angrily  demanding 
cream  ices,  champagne,  and  claret  -  cup.  Every 
moment  the  crowd  grew  denser,  and  the  red  coats 
of  the  Guards  and  the  black  corded  jackets  of  the 
Rifles  stained  like  spots  of  ink  and  blood  the  pallor 
of  the  background.  A  few  young  men  looked  elegant 
and  shapely  in  the  velvet  and  stockings  of  Court 
dress.  One  of  these  was  Fred  Scully.  He  was  with 
May,  who,  the  moment  she  caught  sight  of  Alice, 
made  frantic  efforts  to  reach  her. 

1  My  dear,  did  anyone  ever  look  so  nice  !  You 
are  as  sweet — well,  a  little  sweeter — than  you  gene- 
rally are !  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Harding  ?  And 
tell  me,  Alice,  what  do  you  think  of  my  dress  ?' 

May  was  in  cream  faille  with  ruchings  of  tulle.  A 
beautiful  piece  of  white  lilac  nestled  upon  her  right 
breast. 

'  You  are  very  nice,  May,  and  I  think  the  white 
sets  off  your  hair  to  advantage.' 

'  Well,  good-bye  dear,  Fred  and  I  are  going  into 
the  next  room ;  one  is  so  pushed  about  here,  but 
there  are  nice  large  velvet  sofas  there  where  one 
can  sit  and  talk.     I  advise  you  to  come.' 

In  the  reposing  shadows  of  rich  velvet  and  sombre 
hangings  women  leaned  over  the  sofas,  talking  to 
men  in  uniform,  while  two  strange-looking  creatures, 
in  long  garments,  walked  up  and  down  the  room — 
Dons  from  Trinity,  who  argued  with  Mr.  Adair 
earnestly. 

'  He  is  one  of  the  lights  of  your  county,  is  he 
not  ?'  said  Harding,  indicating  Mr.  Adair. 


190  MUSLIN 

'  Oh,  yes,'  replied  Alice,  '  he  took  honours  and  a 
gold  medal  at  Trinity  College.' 

'  I  know  he  did,  and  a  capacity  for  passing  com- 
petitive examinations  is  the  best  proof  of  a  man's 
incapacity  for  everything  else.' 

'  Do  you  know  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  little.  He  wears  his  University  laurels  at 
forty,  builds  parish  schools,  and  frightens  his  neigh- 
bours with  the  liberality  of  his  opinions  and  the 
rectitude  of  his  life.' 

'  But  have  you  seen  his  pamphlets  on  the  amalga- 
mation of  the  poor  houses  ?'  said  Alice,  astonished 
at  the  slight  consideration  afforded  to  the  rural 
genius. 

'  I  have  heard  of  them.  It  appeal's  he  is  going  in 
for  politics ;  but  his  politics  will  be  on  a  par  with 
his  saw-mill,  and  his  farmyard  in  concrete.  Mr. 
Adair  is  a  well-known  person.  Every  county  in 
England,  Ireland,  and  Scotland,  possesses  and  is 
proud  of  its  Mr.  Adair.' 

Alice  wondered  for  some  moments  in  silence ; 
and  when  suddenly  her  thoughts  detached  them- 
selves, she  said :  f  We  didn't  see  you  in  the  ladies' 
drawing-room.' 

'  I  was  very  busy  all  the  morning.  I  had  two 
articles  to  write  for  one  of  my  papers  and  some 
books  to  review.' 

'  How  nice  it  must  be  to  have  a  duty  to  perform 
every  day ;  to  have  always  an  occupation  to  which 
you  can  turn  with  pleasure.' 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  look  upon  my  ink-bottle  as 
an  eternal  haven  of  bliss.  Still,  I  would  sooner 
contribute  articles  to  daily  and  weekly  papers  than 


MUSLIN  191 

sit  in  the  Kildare  Street  Club,  drinking  glasses  of 
sherry.  Having  nothing  to  do  must  be  a  terrible 
occupation,  and  one  difficult  to  fulfil  with  dignity 
and  honour.  But/  he  added,  as  if  a  sudden  thought 
had  struck  him,  '  you  must  have  a  great  deal  of  time 
on  your  hands ;  why  don't  you  write  a  novel  ?' 

'  Everybody  can't  write  novels.' 

1  Oh  yes,  they  can.' 

'  Is  that  the  reason  why  you  advise  me  to  write 
one  ? 

'  Not  exactly.  Did  you  ever  try  to  write  a 
story  ?' 

'  No,  not  since  I  was  at  school.  I  used  to  write 
stories  there,  and  read  them  to  the  girls,  and  .   .  .' 

'  And  what  ?' 

1  Oh,  nothing ;  it  seems  so  absurd  of  me  to  talk 
to  you  about  such  things ;  you  will  only  laugh  at  me 
just  as  you  did  at  Mr.  Adair.' 

'  No,  I  assure  you,  I  am  very  loyal  to  my  friends.' 

'  Friends !' 

'  I  should  have  thought  that  friendship  was  a 
question  of  sympathy,  and  not  one  of  time :  but  I 
will  withdraw  the  word.' 

'  Oh,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that — I  am  sure  I  am 
very  glad  ..." 

•  Very  well,  then,  we  will  be  friends ;  and  now 
tell  me  what  you  were  going  to  say.' 

'  I  have  forgotten — what  was  I  saying  ?' 

'You  were  telling  me  about  something  you  had 
written  at  school.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  I  did  a  little  play  for  the 
girls  to  act  just  before  we  left.' 

'  What  was  it  about— what  was  it  called  ?' 


192  MUSLIN 

1  It  was  not  original  —  it  was  an  adaptation  of 
Tennyson's  ballad  of  King  Cophetua.  You  know 
Miss  Gould — she  played  the  King ;  and  Miss  Scully, 
she  played  the  beggar-maid.  But,  of  course,  the 
whole  thing  was  very  childish.' 

At  this  moment  a  figure  in  knee-breeches  and 
flesh-coloured  stockings  was  seen  waving  a  wand  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room.  He  was  the  usher  clearing 
the  way  for  the  viceregal  procession. 

The  first  to  appear  were  the  A.D.C.'s.  They  were 
followed  by  the  Medical  Department,  by  the  Private 
Secretary,  the  Military  Private  Secretary,  the  Assist- 
ant Under  Secretaries,  by  the  Gentlemen  in  Waiting, 
the  Master  of  the  Horse,  the  Dean  of  the  Chapel 
Royal,  the  Chamberlain,  the  Gentleman  Usher,  the 
Comptroller,  the  State  Steward,  walking  with  a 
wand,  like  a  doge  in  an  opera  bouffe ;  then  came 
another  secretary,  and  another  band  of  the  under- 
lings who  flock  about  this  mock  court.  And  then 
came  a  heavy-built,  red-bearded  man,  who  carried,  as 
one  might  a  baby,  a  huge  gilt  sword  in  his  fat  hands. 
He  was  followed  by  their  Excellencies.  The  long, 
maroon-coloured  breeches  preserved  their  usual  dis- 
consolateness,  the  teeth  and  diamonds  retained  their 
splendour,  and  the  train — many  yards  of  azure  blue 
richest  Duchesse  satin,  embroidered  with  large 
bouquets  of  silver  lily  of  the  valley,  and  trimmed 
with  plumes  of  azure  blue  ostrich  feathers,  and 
bunches  of  silver  coral — was  upheld  by  two  tiny 
children  who  tottered  beneath  its  enormous  weight. 
Then  another  batch  of  A.D.C.'s -in -Waiting,  the 
ladies  of  the  viceregal  family :  their  Excellencies' 
guests  and  the  ladies  in  attendance — placed  accord- 


MUSLIN  193 

ing  to  their  personal  precedence — brought  up  the 
rear  of  the  procession. 

'  Doesn't  real,  actual  life  sometimes  appear  to 
you,  Miss  Barton,  more  distorted  and  unreal  than  a 
dream  ?  I  know  it  does  to  me.  The  spectacle  we 
have  just  witnessed  was  a  part  of  the  ages  that 
believed  in  the  godhead  of  Christ  and  the  divine 
right  of  Kings ;  but  it  seems  to  me  strange  that 
such  barbarities  should  be  permitted  to  loiter.' 

'  But  what  has  Christianity  to  do  with  the  pro- 
cession that  has  just  passed  ?' 

'  Were  it  not  for  faith,  do  you  think  a  mock  court 
would  be  allowed  to  promenade  in  that  ludicrous 
fashion  ?' 

'  I'm  not  sure  it  is  faith  that  enables  them  to 
reverence  the  sword  of  State.  Is  it  not  rather  that 
love  of  ceremonial  inherent  in  us  all — more  or  less  ?' 

'  Perhaps  you  are  right.' 

The  conversation  drifted  back  to  literature  ;  they 
talked  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  Alice  suggested 
that  it  was  time  she  should  return  to  Mrs.  Barton. 
Patrick's  Hall  was  still  crowded,  and  champagne 
corks  exploded  through  the  babbling  of  the  voices. 
The  squadron  of  distressed  damsels  had  not  deserted 
their  favourite  corner,  and  they  waited  about  the 
pillars  like  cabs  on  a  stand.  At  this  hour  a  middle- 
aged  married  doctor  would  be  welcomed  ;  all  were 
desirous  of  being  seen,  if  only  for  a  moment,  on  the 
arm  of  a  man.  Mrs.  Barton's  triumph  was  Cesarean. 
More  than  half-a-dozen  old  lords  and  one  young  man 
listened  to  her  bewitching  laugh,  and  were  fed  on 
the  brown  flashing  gold  of  her  eyes.  Milord  and 
Rosshill   had   been   pushed  aside  ;  and,  apart,  each 

N 


194  MUSLIN 

sought  to  convince  the  other  that  he  was  going  to 
leave  town  by  the  evening  mail.  Well  in  view  of 
everyone,  Olive  had  spent  an  hour  with  Lord 
Kilcarney.  He  had  just  brought  her  back  to 
Mrs.  Barton.  At  a  little  distance  the  poor  Scullys 
stood  waiting.  They  knew  no  one,  even  the  Bartons 
had  given  them  a  very  cold  shoulder.  Mrs.  Gould, 
in  an  old  black  velvet  dress,  wondered  why  all  the 
nice  girls  did  not  get  married,  and  from  time  to 
time  she  plaintively  questioned  the  passers-by  if  they 
had  seen  May.  Violet's  sharp  face  had  grown 
sharper.  She  knew  she  could  do  something  if  she 
only  got  a  chance.  But  would  she  get  a  chance  ? 
The  Ladies  Cullen,  their  plank-like  shoulders  bound 
in  grey  frise  velvet  and  steel,  were  talking  to  her. 
Suddenly  Lady  Sarah  bowed  to  Lord  Kilcarney,  and 
the  bow  said,  '  Come  hither !'  Leaving  Olive  he 
approached.  A  moment  after  he  was  introduced 
to  Violet.  Her  thin  face  lit  up  as  if  from  a  light 
within  ;  a  grey  cloud  dimmed  the  light  of 
Mrs.  Barton's  golden  eyes,  and  when  she  saw  Him 
in  the  vestibule  helping  the  Scullys  on  with  their 
wraps,  she  shuddered  as  if  struck  with  a  blast  of 
icy  wind. 

XIX 

'DlWGORY    CASTLK,    GoRT, 

'  Co.  Galway. 
'  My  Dearest  Alice, 

e  I  was  so  delighted  to  hear  from  you  ;  it  was 
very  good  of  you  to  write  to  me.  I  was  deeply 
interested  in  your  description  of  the  Dublin  festiv- 
ities, and  must  try  and  tell  you  all  the  news. 


MUSLIN  195 

'Everybody  here  is  talking  of  Olive  and  Lord 
Kilcarney.  It  is  said  that  he  proposed  to  her  at  the 
Drawing- Room.  Is  this  true  ?  I  hope  so,  for  she 
seems  to  have  set  her  heart  on  the  match.  But  she 
is  a  great  deal  too  nice  for  him.  They  say  that  when 
he  is  in  London  he  does  nothing  but  go  about  from 
bar-room  to  bar-room  drinking  brandies  and  sodas. 
It  is  also  said  that  he  used  to  spend  much  of  his 
time  with  actresses.  I  hope  these  stories  are  false, 
but  I  cannot  help  thinking.  .  .  .  Well,  we  have 
often  talked  over  these  things,  and  you  know  what 
my  opinions  of  men  are.  I  hope  I  am  not  doing 
wrong  in  speaking  like  this  ;  but  a  piece  of  news 
has  reached  me  that  forces  my  thoughts  back  into 
the  old  ways — ways  that  I  know  you  have  often 
reproved  me  for  letting  my  mind  wander  in.  In  a 
word,  darling  Alice,  I  hear  that  you  are  very  much 
taken  up  with  a  Mr.  Harding,  a  writer,  or  painter, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  Now,  will  you  pi-omise 
to  write  and  tell  me  if  this  be  true  ?  I  would  sooner 
know  the  worst  at  once — hear  that  you  love  him 
madly,  passionately,  as  I  believe  some  women  love 
men.  But  you,  who  are  so  nice,  so  good,  so  beauti- 
ful, you  could  not  love  a  man  thus.  I  cannot  think 
you  could — I  will  not  think  you  do.  I  have  been 
crying  all  the  morning,  crying  bitterly ;  horrible 
thoughts  have  forced  themselves  on  my  mind.  I 
have  seen  (but  it  was  not  true  though  it  seemed  so 
clear  ;  visions  are  not  always  true)  this  man  kissing 
you !  Oh  !  Alice,  let  me  warn  you,  let  me  beg  of 
you  to  think  well  before  you  abandon  yourself  to  a 
man's  power,  to  a  man's  love. 

'  But  you,  Alice ;  you  who  are  so  noble,  so  pure, 


196  MUSLIN 

so  lofty-minded,  you  would  not  soil  yourself  by  giving 
way  to  such  a  sentiment.  Write  !  you  will  write, 
and  tell  me  that  what  I  saw  in  vision  was  a  lie,  an 
abominable  lie !  Nay,  you  do  not  love  Mr.  Harding. 
You  will  not  marry  him  ;  surely  you  will  not.  Oh  ! 
to  be  left  here  alone,  never  to  see  you  again — I  could 
not  bear  it,  I  should  die.  You  will  not  leave  me  to 
die,  Alice  dear,  you  will  not ;  write  and  tell  me  you 
will  not.  And  what  grieves  me  doubly  is  that  it 
must  seem  to  you,  dear,  that  I  am  only  thinking  of 
myself.  I  am  not ;  I  think  of  you,  I  wish  to  save 
you  from  what  must  be  a  life  of  misery  and,  worse 
still,  of  degradation ;  for  every  man  is  a  degradation 
when  he  approaches  a  woman.  I  know  you  couldn't 
bear  up  against  this ;  you  are  too  refined,  too  pure — 
I  can  sympathize  with  you.  I  know,  poor  little 
cripple  though  I  be,  the  horrors  of  married  life.  I 
know  what  men  are — you  smile  your  own  kind, 
sweet  smile  ;  I  see  it  as  I  write  ;  but  you  are  wrong  : 
I  know  nothing  of  men  in  pai'ticular,  but  I  know 
what  the  sex  is — 1  know  nothing  of  individuals,  but 
I  know  what  life  is.  The  very  fact  of  being  forced 
to  live  apart  has  helped  me  to  realize  how  horrible 
life  is,  and  how  the  passions  of  men  make  it  vile  and 
abominable.  All  their  tender  little  words  and  atten- 
tions are  but  lust  in  disguise.  I  hate  them  !  I  could 
whip,  I  could  beat,  I  would  torture  them  ;  and  when 
I  had  done  my  worst  I  should  not  have  done  enough 
to  punish  them  for  the  wrongs  they  have  done  to  my 
sex. 

'  I  know,  Alice  dear,  I  am  writing  violently,  that 
I  am  letting  my  temper  get  the  better  of  me,  and 
this  is  very  wrong  ;  you  have  often  told  me  it  is  very 


MUSLIN  197 

wrong  ;  but  I  cannot  help  it,  my  darling,  when  I 
think  of  the  danger  you  are  in.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how,  but  I  do  know  you  are  in  danger ;  something, 
some  instinct  has  put  me  in  communication  with 
you  :  there  are  moments  when  I  see  you,  yes,  see 
you  sitting  by  that  man — I  see  you  now  : — the  scene 
is  a  long  blue  drawing-room  all  aglow  with  gold 
mirrors  and  wax  candles — he  is  sitting  by  you,  I  see 
you  smiling  upon  him — my  blood  boils,  Alice — I  fear 
I  am  going  mad  ;  my  head  drops  on  the  table,  and  I 
strive  to  shut  out  the  odious  sight,  but  I  cannot, 
I  cannot,  I  cannot.   .   .   . 

'  I  am  calmer  now  :  you  will  forgive  me,  Alice 
dear  ?  I  know  I  am  wrong  to  write  to  you  in  this 
way,  but  there  are  moments  when  I  realize  things 
with  such  hon-ible  vividness  that  I  am,  as  it  were, 
maddened  with  pain.  Sometimes  I  awake  in  the 
night,  and  then  I  see  life  in  all  its  hideous  naked- 
ness, revealed,  as  it  were,  by  a  sudden  flash  of 
lightning.  Oh,  it  is  terrible  to  think  we  are  thus. 
Good-bye,  dear,  I  know  you  will  forgive  me,  and 
I  hope  you  will  write  at  once,  and  will  not  leave  me 
in  suspense  :  that  is  the  worst  torture.  With  love 
to  our  friends  Olive,  May,  and  Violet,  believe  me, 
darling  Alice, 

'  Yours  affectionately, 

'  Cecilia  Cullen.' 

She  read  steadily,  word  by  word,  and  then  let  the 
letter  fall. 

Her  vision  was  not  precise,  but  there  were  flashes 
of  sun  in  it,  and  her  thoughts  loomed  and  floated 
away.     She  thought  of  herself,  of  Harding,  of  their 


198  MUSLIN 

first  meeting.  The  first  time  she  had  seen  him  he 
was  sitting  in  the  same  place  and  in  the  same  chair 
as  she  was  sitting  in  now.  She  remembered  the  first 
words  that  had  been  spoken  :  the  scene  was  as  clear 
to  her  as  if  it  were  etched  upon  her  brain  ;  and  as 
she  mused  she  thought  of  the  importance  of  that 
event.  Harding  was  to  her  what  a  mountain  is  to 
the  level  plain.  From  him  she  now  looked  forward 
and  back.  *  So  people  say  that  I  am  in  love  with 
him  !  well,  supposing  I  were,  I  do  not  know  that 
I  should  feel  ashamed  of  myself.' 

The  reflection  was  an  agreeable  one,  and  in  it  her 
thoughts  floated  away  like  red-sailed  barges  into  the 
white  mists  that  veil  with  dreamy  enchantment  the 
wharves  and  the  walls  of  an  ancient  town.  What 
did  she  know  of  him  ?  Nothing  !  He  was  to  her  as 
much,  but  no  more,  than  the  author  of  a  book  in 
which  she  was  deeply  interested  :  with  this  differ- 
ence : — she  could  hear  him  reply  to  her  questions ; 
but  his  answers  were  only  like  other  books,  and 
revealed  nothing  of  his  personality.  She  would  have 
liked  to  have  known  the  individual  man  surrounded 
with  his  individual  hopes  and  sufferings,  but  of  these 
she  knew  nothing.  They  had  talked  of  all  things, 
but  it  seemed  to  her  that  of  the  real  man  she  had 
never  had  a  glimpse.  Never  did  he  unbend,  never 
did  he  lift  the  mask  he  wore.  He  was  interesting, 
but  very  unhuman,  and  he  paraded  his  ideas  and  his 
sneers  as  the  lay  figures  did  the  mail-armour  on  the 
castle  stairway.  She  did  not  know  if  he  were  a  good 
or  a  bad  man  ;  she  fancied  he  was  not  very  good, 
and  then  she  grew  angry  with  herself  for  suspecting 
him.      But   honest   or  dishonest,  she   was   sure   he 


MUSLIN  199 

could  love  no  one  ;  and  she  strove  to  recall  his  face. 
She  could  remember  nothing  but  the  cold  merciless 
eyes — eyes  that  were  like  the  palest  blue  porcelain : 
'  But  how  ungrateful  I  am,'  thought  the  girl,  and 
she  checked  the  bitter  flow  of  reproaches  that  rose 
in  her  mind. 

Two  old  ladies  sat  on  the  sofa  under  the  window, 
their  white  hair  and  white  caps  coming  out  very 
white  upon  the  grey  Irish  day ;  and  around  the 
ottoman  the  young  ladies,  Gladys  and  Zoe  Brennan, 
one  of  the  Miss  Duflys,  and  the  girl  in  red,  yawned 
over  circulating  novels,  longing  that  a  man  might 
come  in — not  with  hope  that  he  would  interest 
them,  but  because  they  were  accustomed  to  think 
of  all  time  as  wasted  that  was  not  spent  in  talking 
to  a  man. 

Nor  were  they  awakened  from  their  languid  hopes 
until  Olive  came  rushing  into  the  room  with  a  large 
envelope  in  her  hand. 

'  Oh,  I  see,'  she  said,  cyou  have  got  a  letter  from 
Cecilia.  What  does  she  say  ?  I  got  one  this  morn- 
ing from  Barnes ; '  and,  bending  her  head,  Olive 
whispered  in  Alice's  ear  :  f  She  says  that  everyone  is 
talking  in  Galway  of  when  I  shall  be  a  marchioness  !' 

'  Is  that  the  letter  ?'  asked  Alice  innocently. 

'  No,  you  silly,  this  is  a  Castle  invitation.' 

The  Brennans  and  the  girl  in  red  looked  up. 

1  Ah,  is  it  for  to-night  or  to-morrow  ?'  said  the 
latter. 

(  For  to-morrow.' 

'  Now,  I  wonder  if  there  will  be  one  for  me.  Is  it 
to  dinner  or  to  the  dance  ?' 

'  To  dinner.' 


200  MUSLIN 

'  Ah,  really  .  .  .  yes,  very  lucky.'  Her  eyes  fell, 
and  her  look  was  expressive  of  her  deep  disappoint- 
ment. A  dance — yes,  but  a  dinner  and  a  dance  ! 
Then  she  continued :  f  Ah,  the  Castle  treats  us  all 
very  badly.  I  am  glad  sometimes  when  I  hear  the 
Land  League  abusing  it.  We  come  up  here,  and 
spend  all  our  money  on  dresses,  and  we  get  nothing 
for  it  except  two  State  balls,  and  it  is  no  compliment 
to  ask  us  to  them — they  are  obliged  to.  But  what 
do  you  think  of  my  little  coat  ?  It  is  this  that  keeps 
me  warm,'  and  Miss  O'Reilly  held  out  her  sealskin 
for  the  company  to  feel  the  texture.  For  the  last 
three  weeks  she  had  not  failed,  on  all  occasions,  to 
call  attention  to  this  garment — '  Signor  Parisina  had 
said  it  was  lovely.'  Here  she  sighed — Signor  Parisina 
had  left  the  hotel.  c  And  I  have  a  new  dress  coming 
home — it  is  all  red — a  cardinal  silk — you  know 
nothing  but  red  suits  me  !' 

'  Is  the  hall-porter  distributing  the  invitations  ?' 
asked  Gladys  Brennan.     '  Did  he  give  you  yours  ?' 

'  No,  ours  was,  of  course,  directed  to  mamma  ;  I 
found  it  in  her  room.' 

'  Then  perhaps '  Zoe  did  not  finish  the  sen- 
tence, and  both  sisters  rolled  up  their  worsted-work 
preparatory  to  going  upstairs. 

In  Dublin,  during  six  weeks  of  the  year,  the 
arrival  of  these  large  official  envelopes  is  watched 
with  eagerness.  These  envelopes  are  the  balm  of 
Gilead ;  and  the  Land  League  and  the  hopelessness 
of  matchmaking  are  merged  and  lost  for  a  moment 
in  an  exquisite  thrill  of  triumph  or  despair.  An 
invitation  to  the  Castle  means  much.  The  grey- 
headed official  who  takes  you  down  to  dinner  may 


MUSLIN  201 

bore  you,  and,  at  the  dance,  you  may  find  yourself 
without  a  partner ;  but  the  delight  of  asking  your 
friends  if  you  may  expect  to  meet  them  on  such 
a  night,  of  telling  them  afterwards  of  your  successes, 
are  the  joys  of  Dublin.  And,  armed  with  their 
invitation,  the  Bartons  scored  heavily  over  the 
Scullys  and  the  Goulds,  who  were  only  asked  to 
the  dance. 

*  And  what  will  the  dinner  be  like,  mamma  ?' 
asked  Olive. 

'  It  will  be  very  grand.  Lord  Cowper  does  things 
in  very  good  style  indeed ;  and  our  names  will  be 
given  in  the  papers.  But  I  don't  think  it  will 
amuse  you,  dear.  All  the  officials  have  to  be  asked 
— judges,  police-officers,  etc.  You  will  probably  go 
down  with  some  old  fellow  of  sixty :  but  that  can't 
be  helped.  At  the  dance,  after,  we'll  see  the 
Marquis.' 

1 1  told  you,  mamma,  didn't  I,  that  Barnes  wrote 
that  everybody  in  Galway  said  he  was  in  love  with 
me,  and  had  proposed  ?' 

'  You  did,  dear ;  and  it  does  no  harm  for  the 
report  to  have  got  about,  for  if  a  thing  gets  very 
much  spoken  of,  it  forces  a  man  to  come  to  the 
point.  You  will  wear  your  red  tulle.  I  don't  know 
that  you  look  better  in  anything  else.' 

Whatever  Mrs.  Barton's  faults  may  have  been, 
she  did  her  duty,  as  she  conceived  it,  by  her 
daughter  ;  and  during  the  long  dinner,  through  the 
leaves  of  the  flowering-plants,  she  watched  her 
Olive  anxiously.  A  hundred  and  twenty  people 
were  present.  Mothers  and  eligible  daughters, 
judges,    lords,    police-officers,    earls,    poor-law    in- 


202  MUSLIN 

spectors,  countesses,  and  Castle  officials.  Around 
the  great  white-painted,  gold-listed  walls  the  table, 
in  the  form  of  a  horseshoe,  was  spread.  In  the 
soothing  light  of  the  shaded  lamps  the  white  glitter 
of  the  piled-up  silver  danced  over  the  talking  faces, 
and  descended  in  silvery  waves  into  the  bosoms 
of  the  women.  Salmon  and  purple-coloured  liveries 
passed  quickly ;  and  in  the  fragrance  of  soup  and 
the  flavours  of  sherry,  in  the  lascivious  pleasing  of 
the  waltz  tunes  that  Liddell's  band  poured  from 
a  top  gallery,  the  goodly  company  of  time-servers, 
panders,  and  others  forgot  their  fears  of  the  Land 
League  and  the  doom  that  was  now  waxing  to 
fulness. 

To  the  girls  the  dinner  seemed  interminable,  but 
at  the  '  private  dance  '  afterwards  those  who  were 
knoAvn  in  official  circles,  or  were  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  their  friends,  amused  themselves.  It  took 
place  in  the  Throne-Room.  As  the  guests  arrived 
they  scanned  each  other  narrowly.  People  who  had 
known  each  other  from  childhood  upwards,  as  they 
met  on  the  landing,  affected  a  look  of  surprise : 
'  Oh,  so  you  are  here  ?  I  wonder  how  you  got 
your  invitation  ?  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  better 
than  I  took  you  to  be  !'  Acquaintances  saluted  each 
other  more  cordially  than  was  their  wont :  he  or  she 
who  had  dined  at  the  Castle  took  his  or  her  place  at 
once  among  the  elite ;  he  or  she  who  had  come  to 
dance  was  henceforth  considered  worthy  of  a  bow  in 
Grafton  Street.  For  Dublin  is  a  city  without  a  con- 
viction, without  an  opinion.  Things  are  right  and 
wrong  according  to  the  dictum  of  the  nearest 
official.     If  it  be  not  absolutely  ill-bred  to  say  you 


MUSLIN  203 

think  this,  or  are  inclined  to  take  such  or  such  a 
view,  it  is  certainly  more  advisable  to  say  that  the 
Attorney-General  thinks  so,  or  that  on  one  occasion 
you  heard  the  State  Steward,  the  Chamberlain,  or 
any  other  equally  distinguished  underling,  express 
this  or  that  opinion.  Castle  tape  is  worn  in  time  of 
mourning  and  in  the  time  of  feasting.  Every  gig- 
man  in  the  Kildare  Street  wears  it  in  his  button- 
hole, and  the  ladies  of  Merrion  Square  are  found  to 
be  gartered  with  it. 

Mrs.  Barton's  first  thought  was  to  get  Olive  part- 
ners. Milord  and  Lord  Rosshill  were  sent  hither 
and  thither,  and  with  such  good  result  that  the 
whole  evening  the  beauty  was  beset  with  A.D.C.'s. 
But  the  Marquis  had  danced  three  times  with  Violet 
Scully,  and  Mrs.  Barton  vented  her  anger  on  poor 
Alice.  The  girl  knew  no  one,  nor  was  there  time 
to  introduce  her  to  men.  She  was  consequently 
sent  off  with  Milord  to  see  where  the  Marquis  was 
hiding ;  and  she  was  commissioned  to  tell  her  sister 
to  answer  thus  when  Lord  Kilcarney  asked  for 
another  dance  :  '  I  am  engaged,  cher  marquis,  but  for 
you,  of  course,  I  shall  have  to  throw  some  poor 
fellow  over.'  Mrs.  Barton  did  not  know  how  to  play 
a  waiting  game.  Her  tactics  were  always  to  grapple 
with  the  enemy.  She  was  a  Hannibal :  she  risked 
all  to  gain  all.  Mrs.  Scully,  on  the  contrary,  watched 
the  combat  from  afar — as  Moltke  did  the  German 
lines  when  they  advanced  upon  Paris. 

The  Bartons  were  not  invited  to  the  next  private 
dance,  which  was  annoying,  and  after  long  con- 
jecturing as  to  the  enemy  that  had  served  them  this 
trick,  they  resigned  themselves  to   the  inevitable, 


204  MUSLIN 

and  began  to  look  forward  to  the  State  ball  given 
on  the  following  Monday. 

As  they  mounted  the  stairway  Mrs.  Barton  said  : 

'  You  know  we  turn  to  the  left  this  time  and  enter 
Patrick's  Hall  by  this  end  ;  the  other  entrance  is 
blocked  up  by  the  dais — only  the  three  and  four 
season  girls  stand  about  the  pillars.  There  they  are 
drawn  up  in  battle  array.' 

'  I  declare  Olive  Barton  is  here  !'  whispered  the 
redoubtable  Bertha ;  l  this  doesn't  look  as  if  the 
beaux  were  coming  forward  in  their  hundreds.  It  is 
said  that  Lord  Kilcarney  has  given  her  up  for  Violet 
Scully.' 

'  I'm  not  a  bit  surprised/  said  the  girl  in  red ; 
'  and,  now  I  think  of  it,  all  the  beauties  come  to  the 
same  end.  I'll  just  give  her  a  couple  more  Castle 
seasons.  It  is  that  that  will  pull  the  fine  feathers 
out  of  her.' 

St.  Patrick's  Hall  was  now  a  huge  democratic 
crush.  All  the  little  sharp  glances  of  the  f  private 
dances,'  '  What,  you  here !'  were  dispensed  with  as 
useless,  for  all  were  within  their  rights  in  being  at 
the  ball.  They  pushed,  laughed,  danced.  They 
met  as  they  would  have  met  in  Rotten  Row,  and 
they  took  their  amusement  with  the  impartiality  of 
pleasure-seekers  jigging  and  drinking  in  a  market- 
place on  fair-day.  On  either  side  of  the  Hall  there 
were  ascending  benches ;  these  were  filled  with 
chaperons  and  debutantes,  and  over  their  heads  the 
white -painted,  gold-listed  walls  were  hung  with 
garlands  of  evergreen  oak  interwoven  with  the 
celebrated  silver  shields,  the  property  of  the  Cowper 
family,  and  in  front  of  the  curtains  hanging  about 


MUSLIN  205 

the  dais,  the  maroon  legs  of  His  Excellency,  and  the 
teeth  and  diamonds  of  Her  Excellency,  were  seen 
passing  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down  to  the  music  of 
oblivion  that  Liddell  dispensed  with  a  flowing  arm. 

'  Now  aren't  the  Castle  balls  very  nice  ?'  said 
Bertha;  'and  how  are  you  amusing  yourself?' 

'  Oh,  very  much  indeed,'  replied  the  poor  debut- 
ante who  had  not  even  a  brother  to  take  her  for  a 
walk  down  the  room  or  to  the  buffet  for  an  ice. 

1  And  is  it  true,  Bertha,'  asks  the  fierce  aunt — '  you 
know  all  the  news — that  Mr.  Jones  has  been  trans- 
ferred to  another  ship  and  has  gone  off  to  the 
Cape  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  replied  the  girl ;  l  a  nice  end  to  her 
beau  ;  and  after  dinnering  him  up  the  whole  summer, 
too.' 

Alice  shuddered.  What  were  they  but  snow- 
flakes  born  to  shine  for  a  moment  and  then  to 
fade,  to  die,  to  disappear,  to  become  part  of  the 
black,  the  foul-smelling  slough  of  mud  below  ?  The 
drama  in  muslin  was  again  unfolded,  and  she  could 
read  each  act ;  and  there  was  a  (  curtain '  at  the  end 
of  each.  The  first  was  made  of  young,  hopeful 
faces,  the  second  of  arid  solicitation,  the  third  of 
the  bitter,  malignant  tongues  of  Bertha  Duffy  and 
her  friend.  She  had  begun  to  experience  the  worst 
horrors  of  a  Castle  ball.  She  was  sick  of  pity  for 
those  around  her,  and  her  lofty  spirit  resented  the 
insult  that  was  being  offered  to  her  sex. 

'  Have  you  been  long  here,  Miss  Barton  ?'  She 
looked  up.  Harding  was  by  her  !  '  I  have  been 
looking  out  for  you,  but  the  crowd  is  so  great  that 
it  is  hard  to  find  anyone.' 


206  MUSLIN 

1 1  think  we  arrived  about  a  quarter  to  eleven/ 
Alice  answered. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  Harding  said :  '  Will  you 
give  me  this  waltz?'  She  assented,  and,  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  dancers,  he  added : 
'  But  I  believe  you  do  not  care  about  dancing.  If 
you'd  prefer  it,  we  might  go  for  a  walk  down  the 
room.  Perhaps  you'd  like  an  ice  ?  This  is  the  way 
to  the  buffet.' 

But  Alice  and  Harding  did  not  stop  long  there ; 
they  were  glad  to  leave  the  heat  of  gas,  the  odour 
of  sauces,  the  effervescence  of  the  wine,  the  detona- 
tions of  champagne,  the  tumult  of  laughter,  the 
racing  of  plates,  the  heaving  of  bosoms,  the  glittering 
of  bodices,  for  the  peace  and  the  pale  blue  refinement 
of  the  long  blue  drawing-room.  How  much  of  our 
sentiments  and  thoughts  do  we  gather  from  our 
surroundings  ;  and  the  shining  blue  of  the  turquoise- 
coloured  curtains,  the  pale  dead-blue  of  the  Louis  XV. 
furniture,  and  the  exquisite  fragility  of  the  glass 
chandeliers,  the  gold  mirrors  rutilant  with  the  light 
of  some  hundreds  of  tall  wax  candles,  were  illustra- 
tive of  the  light  dreams  and  delicate  lassitude  that 
filled  the  souls  of  the  women  as  they  lay  back 
whispering  to  their  partners,  the  crinolettes  lifting 
the  skirts  over  the  edges  of  the  sofas.  Here  the 
conversation  seems  serious,  there  it  is  smiling,  and 
broken  by  the  passing  and  repassing  of  a  fan. 

'  Only  four  days  more  of  Dublin,'  said  Harding ; 
( I  have  settled,  or  rather  the  fates  have  settled,  that 
I  am  to  leave  next  Saturday.' 

(  And  where  are  you  going  ?  to  London  ?' 

'  Yes,  to  London.     I   am   sorry   I   am   leaving   so 


MUSLIN  207 

soon;  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  have  met  many 
nice  people  here — some  of  whom  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  forget.' 

'  You  speak  as  if  it  were  necessary  to  forget  them 
— it  is  surely  always  better  to  remember.' 

'  I  shall  remember  you.' 

'  Do  you  think  you  will  ?' 

At  this  moment  only  one  thing  in  the  world 
seemed  to  be  of  much  real  importance — that  the 
man  now  sitting  by  her  side  should  not  be  taken 
away  from  her.  To  know  that  he  existed,  though 
far  from  her,  would  be  almost  enough — a  sort  of 
beacon-light — a  light  she  might  never  reach  to,  but 
which  would  guide  her  .  .  .  whither  ? 

In  no  century  have  men  been  loved  so  implicitly 
by  women  as  in  the  nineteenth ;  nor  could  this  be 
otherwise,  for  putting  aside  the  fact  that  the  natural 
wants  of  love  have  become  a  nervous  erethism  in 
the  struggle  that  a  surplus  population  of  more  than 
two  million  women  has  created,  there  are  psycho- 
logical reasons  that  to-day  more  than  ever  impel 
women  to  shrink  from  the  intellectual  monotony  of 
their  sex,  and  to  view  with  increasing  admiration 
the  male  mind ;  for  as  the  gates  of  the  harem  are 
being  broken .  down,  and  the  gloom  of  the  female 
mind  clears,  it  becomes  certain  that  woman  brings  a 
loftier  reverence  to  the  shrine  of  man  than  she  has 
done  in  any  past  age,  seeing,  as  she  now  does,  in 
him  the  incarnation  of  the  freedom  of  which  she 
is  vaguely  conscious  and  which  she  is  perceptibly 
acquiring.  So  sets  the  main  current  that  is  bearing 
civilization  along ;  but  beneath  the  great  feminine 
tide  there  is  an  undercurrent  of  hatred  and  revolt. 


208  MUSLIN 

This  is  particularly  observable  in  the  leaders  of  the 
movement ;  women  who  in  the  tumult  of  their  aspira- 
tions, and  their  passionate  yearnings  towards  the 
new  ideal,  and  the  memory  of  the  abasement  their 
sex  have  been  in  the  past,  and  are  still  being  in  the 
present,  subjected  to,  forget  the  laws  of  life,  and 
with  virulent  virtue  and  protest  condemn  love — that 
is  to  say,  love  in  the  sense  of  sexual  intercourse — 
and  proclaim  a  higher  mission  for  woman  than  to  be 
the  mother  of  men  :  and  an  adjuvant,  unless  corrected 
by  sanative  qualities  of  a  high  order,  is,  of  course, 
found  in  any  physical  defect.  But  as  the  corporeal 
and  incorporeal  hereditaments  of  Alice  Barton  and 
Lady  Cecilia  Cullen  were  examined  fully  in  the 
beginning  of  this  chapter,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
here  indicate  the  order  of  ideas — the  moral  atmo- 
sphere of  the  time — to  understand  the  efflorescence 
of  the  two  minds,  and  to  realize  how  curiously 
representative  they  are  of  this  last  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

And  it  was  necessary  to  make  that  survey  of 
psychical  cause  and  effect  to  appreciate  the  senti- 
ments that  actuated  Alice  in  her  relationship  with 
Harding.  She  loved  him,  but  more  through  the 
imagination  than  the  heart.  She  knew  he  was  de- 
ceiving her,  but  to  her  he  meant  so  much  that  she 
had  not  the  force  of  will  to  cast  him  off,  and  aban- 
doned herself  to  the  intellectual  sensualism  of  his 
society.  It  was  this,  and  nothing  more.  What  her 
love  might  have  been  it  is  not  necessary  to  analyze  ; 
in  the  present  circumstances,  it  was  completely 
merged  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  to  her,  light, 
freedom,  and   instruction,  and  that   when   he   left, 


MUSLIN  209 

darkness  and  ignorance  would  again  close  in  upon 
her.  They  had  not  spoken  for  some  moments.  With 
a  cruelty  that  was  peculiar  to  him,  he  waited  for  her 
to  break  the  silence. 

'  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away ;  I  am  afraid  we 
shall  never  meet  again.' 

1  Oh  yes,  we  shall/  he  replied  :  '  you'll  get  married 
one  of  these  days  and  come  to  live  in  London.' 

'  Why  should  I  go  to  live  in  London  ?' 

'  There  are  Frenchmen  born  in  England,  English- 
men born  in  France.  Heine  was  a  Frenchman  born 
in  Germany — and  you  are  a  Kensingtonian.  I  see 
nothing  Irish  in  you.  Oh,  you  are  very  Kensington, 
and  therefore  you  will — I  do  not  know  when  or  how, 
but  assuredly  as  a  stream  goes  to  the  river  and  the 
river  to  the  sea,  you  will  drift  to  your  native  place — 
Kensington.  But  do  you  know  that  I  have  left  the 
hotel  ?  There  were  too  many  people  about  to  do 
much  work,  so  I  took  rooms  in  Molesworth  Street — 
there  I  can  write  and  read  undisturbed.  You  might 
come  and  see  me.' 

'  I  should  like  to  very  much,  but  I  don't  think  I 
could  ask  mother  to  come  with  me ;  she  is  so  very 
busy  just  now.' 

1  Well,  don't  ask  your  mother  to  come  ;  you  won't 
be  afraid  to  come  alone  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  could  not  do  that.' 
'  Why   not  ?     No   one  will   ever   know  anything 
about  it.' 

'  Very  possibly,  but  I  don't  think  it  would  be  a 
proper  thing  to  do — I  don't  think  it  would  be  a  right 
thing  to  do.' 


210  MUSLIN 

'  Right !  I  thought  we  had  ceased  to  believe  in 
heaven  and  hell.' 

'  Yes ;  but  does  that  change  anything  ?  There 
are  surely  duties  that  we  owe  to  our  people,  to  our 
families.  The  present  ordering  of  things  may  be 
unjust,  but,  as  long  as  it  exists,  had  we  not  better 
live  in  accordance  with  it  ?' 

f  A  very  sensible  answer,  and  I  suppose  you  are 
right.' 

Alice  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  but  she  was 
shaken  too  intensely  in  all  her  feelings  to  see  that 
he  was  perfectly  sincere,  that  his  answer  was  that  of 
a  man  who  saw  and  felt  through  his  intelligence, 
and  not  his  conscience. 

The  conversation  had  come  to  a  pause,  and  the 
silence  was  broken  suddenly  by  whispered  words, 
and  the  abundant  laughter  that  was  seemingly 
used  to  hide  the  emotions  that  oppressed  the 
speakers.  Finally  they  sat  down  quite  close  to,  but 
hidden  from,  Alice  and  Harding  by  a  screen,  and 
through  the  paper  even  their  breathing  was  audible. 
All  the  dancers  were  gone ;  there  was  scarcely  a 
white  skirt  or  black  coat  in  the  pale  blueness  of  the 
room.  Evidently  the  lovers  thought  they  were  well 
out  of  reach  of  eavesdroppers.  Alice  felt  this,  but 
before  she  could  rise  to  go  Fred  Scully  had  said — 

'  Now,  May,  I  hope  you  won't  refuse  to  let  me 
come  and  see  you  in  your  room  to-night.  It  would 
be  too  cruel  if  you  did.  I'll  steal  along  the  passage  ; 
no  one  will  hear,  no  one  will  ever  know,  and  I'll 
be  so  very  good.     I  promise  you  I  will.' 

'  Oh,  Fred,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  trust  j^ou  ;  it  would 
be  so  very  wicked.' 


MUSLIN  211 

•  Nothing  is  wicked  when  we  really  love  ;  besides, 
I  only  want  to  talk  to  you.' 

'  You  can  talk  to  me  here.' 

'  Yes,  but  it  isn't  the  same  thing ;  anyone  can  talk 
to  you  here.  I  want  to  show  you  a  little  poem  I  cut 
out  of  a  newspaper  to-day  for  you.  I'll  steal  along 
the  passage — no  one  will  ever  know.' 

'  You'll  promise  to  be  very  good,  and  you  won't 
stop  more  than  five  minutes.' 

The  words  were  spoken  in  low,  soft  tones,  exqui- 
sitely expressive  of  the  overthrow  of  reason  and  the 
merging  of  all  the  senses  in  the  sweet  abandonment 
of  passion. 

Alice  sat  unable  to  move,  till  at  last,  awakening 
with  a  pained  look  in  her  grey  eyes,  she  touched 
Harding's  hand  with  hers,  and,  laying  her  finger  on 
her  lips,  she  arose.  Their  footfalls  made  no  sound 
on  the  deep,  soft  carpet. 

f  This  is  very  terrible,'  she  murmured,  half  to  her- 
self. 

Harding  had  too  much  tact  to  answer;  and, taking 
advantage  of  the  appearance  of  Violet  Scully,  who 
came  walking  gaily  down  the  room  on  the  Marquis's 
arm,  he  said  : 

'  Your  friend  Miss  Scully  seems  to  be  in  high 
spirits.' 

Violet  exchanged  smiles  with  Alice  as  she  passed. 
The  smile  was  one  of  triumph.  She  had  waltzed 
three  times  with  the  Marquis,  and  was  now  going  to 
sit  out  a  set  of  quadrilles. 

■  What  a  beautiful  waltz  the  Blue  Danube  is !' 
she  said,  leading  her  admirer  to  where  the  blue  fans 
were  numerous.     Upon   the  glistening  piano  stood 


212  MUSLIN 

a  pot  filled  with  white  azaleas ;  and,  in  the  pauses  of 
the  conversation,  one  heard  the  glass  of  the  chande- 
liers tinkling  gently  to  the  vibration  of  the  music. 

1  It  is  a  beautiful  waltz  when  I  am  dancing  it 
with  you.' 

f  I  am  sure  you  say  that  to  every  girl  you  dance 
with.' 

'  No,  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  say  so  to  anyone 
but  you,'  said  the  little  man  humbly ;  and  so  instinct 
were  the  words  with  truth  that  the  girl,  in  the 
violence  of  her  emotion,  fancied  her  heart  had 
ceased  to  beat. 

'  But  you  haven't  known  me  a  fortnight,'  she 
answered  involuntarily. 

'  But  that  doesn't  matter ;  the  moment  I  saw  you, 
I — I — liked  you.  It  is  so  easy  to  know  the  people 
we — like ;  we  know  it  at  once — at  least  I  do.' 

She  was  more  self-possessed  than  he,  but  the 
words  '  Am  I — am  I  going  to  be  a  marchioness  ?' 
throbbed  like  a  burning  bullet  sunk  into  the  very 
centre  of  her  forehead.  And  to  maintain  her  mental 
equipoise  she  was  forced,  though  by  doing  so  she 
felt  she  was  jeopardizing  her  chances,  to  coquette 
with  him.     After  a  long  silence  she  said  : 

'  Oh,  do  you  think  we  know  at  first  sight  the 
people  we  like  ?  Do  you  believe  in  first  impres- 
sions ?' 

'  My  first  and  last  impressions  of  you  are  always 
the  same.  All  I  know  is  that  when  you  are  present 
all  things  are  bright,  beautiful,  and  cheering,  and 
when  you  are  away  I  don't  much  care  what  happens. 
Now,  these  Castle  balls  used  to  bore  me  to  death 
last  year;  I   used  to  go  into  a  back  room  and  fall 


MUSLIN  213 

asleep.  But  this  year  I  am  as  lively  as  a  kitten — I 
think  I  could  go  on  for  ever,  and  the  Castle  seems 
to  me  the  most  glorious  place  on  earth.  I  used  to 
hate  it ;  I  was  as  bad  as  Parnell,  but  not  for  the 
same  reasons,  of  course.  Now  I  am  only  afraid  he 
will  have  his  way,  and  they'll  shut  the  whole  place 
up.  Anyhow,  even  if  they  do,  I  shall  always  look 
back  upon  this  season  as  a  very  happy  time.' 

'  But  you  do  not  really  think  that  Parnell  will  be 
allowed  to  have  his  way  ?'  said  Violet  inadvertently. 

'  I  don't  know  ;  I  don't  take  much  interest  in 
politics,  but  I  believe  things  are  going  to  the  bad. 
Dublin,  they  say,  is  undermined  with  secret  societies, 
and  the  murder  that  was  committed  the  other  day 
in  Sackville  Street  was  the  punishment  they  inflict 
on  those  whom  they  suspect  of  being  informers,  even 
remotely.' 

'  But  don't  you  think  the  Government  will  soon 
be  obliged  to  step  in  and  put  an  end  to  all  this  kind 
of  thing  ?' 

(l  don't  know  ;  I'm  afraid  they'll  do  nothing  until 
we  landlords  are  all  ruined.' 

Violet's  thin  face  contracted.  She  had  introduced 
a  subject  that  might  prevent  him  from  ever  propos- 
ing to  her.  She  knew  how  heavily  the  Kilcarney 
estates  were  mortgaged ;  and,  even  now,  as  she 
rightly  conjectured,  the  poor  little  man  was  in- 
wardly trembling  at  the  folly  it  had  been  on  his  lips 
to  speak.  Three  of  his  immediate  ancestors  had 
married  penniless  girls,  and  it  was  well  known  that 
another  love-match  would  precipitate  the  property 
over  that  precipice  known  to  every  Irish  landowner 
— the  Encumbered  Estates  Court.     But  those  dainty 


214  MUSLIN 

temples,  so  finely  shaded  with  light  brown  tresses, 
that  delicately  moulded  head — delicate  as  an  Indian 
carven  ivory,  dispelled  all  thoughts  of  his  property, 
and  he  forgot  his  duty  to  marry  an  heiress.  Violet 
meanwhile,  prompted  by  her  instinct,  said  the  right 
words : 

'  But  things  never  turn  out  as  well  or  as  badly  as 
we  expect  them  to.' 

This  facile  philosophy  went  like  wine  to  the  little 
Marquis's  head,  and  he  longed  to  throw  himself  at 
the  feet  of  his  goddess  and  thank  her  for  the  balm 
she  had  poured  upon  him.  The  gloom  of  approach- 
ing ruin  disappeared,  and  he  saw  nothing  in  the 
world  but  a  white  tulle  skirt,  a  thin  foot,  a  thin 
bosom,  and  a  pair  of  bright  grey  eyes.  Vaguely  he 
sought  for  equivalent  words,  but  loud-talking  dancers 
passed  into  the  room,  and,  abashed  by  their  stares, 
the  Marquis  broke  off  a  flowering  branch  and  said, 
stammering  the  while  incoherently  : 

'  Will  you  keep  this  in  memory  of  this  evening  ?' 

Violet  thrust  the  flowers  into  her  bosom,  and  was 
about  to  thank  him,  when  an  A.D.C.  came  up  and 
claimed  her  for  the  dance.  She  told  him  he  was 
mistaken,  that  she  was  engaged  ;  and,  taking  Lord 
Kilcarney's  arm,  they  made  their  way  in  silence  back 
to  the  ball-room.  Violet  was  satisfied  ;  she  felt  now 
very  sure  of  her  Marquis,  and,  as  they  approached 
Mrs.  Scully,  a  quick  glance  said  that  things  were 
going  as  satisfactorily  as  could  be  desired.  Not 
daring  to  trust  herself  to  the  gossip  of  the  chaperons, 
this  excellent  lady  sat  apart,  maintaining  the  solitary 
dignity  to  which  the  Galway  counter  had  accustomed 
her.     She  received  the  Marquis  with  the  same  smile 


MUSLIN  215 

as  she  used  to  bestow  on  her  best  customers,  and 
they  talked  for  a  few  minutes  of  the  different  aspects 
of  the  ball-room,  of  their  friends,  of  things  that  did 
not  interest  them.  Then  Violet  said  winsomely, 
affecting  an  accent  of  command  that  enchanted  him  : 

'  Now  I  want  you  to  go  and  dance  with  someone 
else  ;  let  me  see — what  do  you  say  to  Olive  Barton  ? 
If  you  don't,  I  shall  be  in  her  mother's  black  books 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Now  go.  We  shall  be  at 
home  to-morrow ;  you  might  come  in  for  tea ;'  and, 
suffocated  with  secret  joy,  Lord  Kilcarney  made  his 
way  across  the  room  to  Mrs.  Barton,  who  foolishly 
cancelled  a  couple  of  Olive's  engagements,  and  sent 
her  off  to  dance  with  him,  whereas  wise  Violet 
sat  by  her  mother,  refusing  all  her  partners ;  but, 
when  God  Save  the  Queen  was  played,  she  accepted 
Lord  Kilcarney's  arm,  and  they  pressed  forward  to 
see  the  Lord-Lieutenant  and  Her  Excellency  pass 
down  the  room. 

Violet's  eyes  feasted  on  the  bowing  black  coats 
and  light  toilettes,  and,  leaning  on  her  escutcheon, 
she  dreamed  vividly  of  the  following  year  when  she 
would  take  her  place  amid  all  these  noble  people, 
and,  as  high  as  they,  stand  a  peeress  on  the  dais. 


XX 

•  So  you  couldn't  manage  to  keep  him  after  all,  my 

lady  ?     When  did  he  leave  the  hotel  ?' 

'  Mr.  Harding  left  Dublin  last  Monday  week.' 
Alice  wondered  if  her  mother  hated  her  ;  if  she 

didn't j  it  was  difficult  to  account  for  her  cruel  words. 


216  MUSLIN 

And  this  was  the  girl's  grief,  and  she  feared  that 
hatred  would  beget  hatred,  and  that  she  would 
learn  to  hate  her  mother.  But  Mrs.  Barton  was 
a  loving  and  affectionate  mother,  who  would  sacri- 
fice herself  for  one  child  almost  as  readily  for  the 
other.  In  each  of  us  there  are  traits  that  the  chances 
of  life  have  never  revealed  ;  and  though  she  would 
have  sat  by  the  bedside,  even  if  Alice  were  stricken 
with  typhoid  fever,  Mrs.  Barton  recoiled  spitefully 
like  a  cat  before  the  stern  rectitudes  of  a  nature  so 
dissimilar  from  her  own.  She  had  fashioned  Olive, 
who  was  now  but  a  pale  copy  of  her  mother  accord- 
ing to  her  guise  :  all  the  affectations  had  been  faith- 
fully reproduced,  but  the  charm  of  the  original  had 
evaporated  like  a  perfume.  It  would  be  rash  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Barton  did  not  see  that  the  weapons 
which  had  proved  so  deadly  in  her  hands  were 
ineffectual  in  her  daughter's ;  but  twenty  years 
of  elegant  harlotry  had  blunted  her  finer  percep- 
tions, and  now  the  grossest  means  of  pushing  Olive 
and  the  Marquis  morally  and  physically  into  each 
other's  arms  seemed  to  her  the  best.  Alice  was  to 
her  but  a  plain  girl,  whose  misfortune  was  that  she 
had  ever  been  born.  This  idea  had  grown  up  with 
Mrs.  Barton,  and  fifteen  years  ago  she  had  seen  in 
the  child's  face  the  spinster  of  fifty.  But  since  the 
appearance  of  Harding,  and  the  manifest  interest  he 
had  shown  in  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Barton's  convictions 
that  Alice  would  never  be  able  to  find  a  husband 
had  been  somewhat  shaken,  and  she  had  almost  con- 
cluded that  it  would  be  as  well — for  there  was  no 
knowing  what  men's  tastes  were — to  give  her  a 
chance.      Nor  was  the  dawning  fancy  dispelled  by 


MUSLIN  217 

the  fact  that  Harding  had  not  proposed,  and  the 
cutting  words  she  had  addressed  to  the  girl  were 
the  result  of  the  nervous  irritation  caused  by  the 
marked  attention  the  Marquis  was  paying  Violet 
Scully. 

For,  like  Alice,  Mrs.  Barton  never  lived  long  in  a 
fool's  paradise,  and  she  now  saw  that  the  battle  was 
going  against  her,  and  would  most  assuredly  be  lost 
unless  a  determined  effort  was  made.  So  she  delayed 
not  a  moment  in  owning  to  herself  that  she  had 
committed  a  mistake  in  going  to  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel.  Had  she  taken  a  house  in  Mount  Street  or 
Fitzwilliam  Place,  she  could  have  had  all  the  best 
men  from  the  barracks  continually  at  her  house. 
But  at  the  hotel  she  was  helpless ;  there  were  too 
many  people  about,  too  many  beasts  of  women 
criticizing  her  conduct.  Mrs.  Barton  had  given  two 
dinner-parties  in  a  private  room  hired  for  the  occa- 
sion ;  but  these  dinners  could  scarcely  be  called 
successful.  On  one  occasion  they  had  seven  men  to 
dinner,  and  as  some  half-dozen  more  turned  in  in 
the  evening,  it  became  necessary  to  send  down  to 
the  ladies'  drawing-room  for  partners.  Bertha  Duffy 
and  the  girl  in  red  of  course  responded  to  the  call, 
but  they  had  rendered  everything  odious  by  con- 
tinuous vulgarity  and  brogue.  Then  other  mistakes 
had  been  made.  A  charity  costume  ball  had  been 
advertised.  It  was  to  be  held  in  the  Rotunda.  An 
imposing  list  of  names  headed  the  prospectus,  and  it 
was  confidently  stated  that  all  the  lady  patronesses 
would  attend.  Mrs.  Barton  fell  into  the  trap,  and, 
to  her  dismay,  found  herself  and  her  girls  in  the 
company  of  the   rag,   tag,  and    bobtail  of  Catholic 


218  MUSLIN 

Dublin  :  Bohemian  girls  fabricated  out  of  bed- 
curtains,  negro  minstrels  that  an  application  of 
grease  and  burnt  cork  had  brought  into  a  filthy 
existence.  And  from  the  single  gallery  that  encircled 
this  tomb-like  building  the  small  tradespeople  looked 
down  upon  the  multicoloured  crowd  that  strove  to 
dance  through  the  mud  that  a  late  Land  League 
meeting  had  left  upon  the  floor  ;  and  all  the  while 
grey  dust  fell  steadily  into  the  dancers'  eyes  and 
into  the  sloppy  tea  distributed  at  counters  placed 
here  and  there  like  coffee-stands  in  the  public  street. 

1 1  never  felt  so  low  in  my  life/  said  the  lady  who 
always  brought  back  an  A.D.C.  from  the  Castle,  and 
the  phrase  was  cited  afterwards  as  being  admirably 
descriptive  of  the  festival. 

When  it  became  known  that  the  Bartons  had  been 
present  at  this  ball,  that  the  beauty  had  been  seen 
dancing  with  the  young  Catholic  nobodies,  their 
names  were  struck  off  the  lists,  and  they  were  asked 
to  no  more  private  dances  at  the  Castle.  Lord 
Dungory  was  sent  to  interview  the  Chamberlain,  but 
that  official  could  promise  nothing.  Mrs.  Barton's 
hand  was  therefore  forced.  It  was  obligatoiy  upon 
her  to  have  some  place  where  she  could  entertain 
officers  ;  the  Shelbourne  did  not  lend  itself  to  that 
purpose.  She  hired  a  house  in  Mount  Street,  and 
one  that  possessed  a  polished  floor  admirably  suited 
to  dancing. 

Then  she  threw  off  the  mask,  and  pirate-like, 
regardless  of  the  laws  of  chaperons,  resolved  to  carry 
on  the  war  as  she  thought  proper.  She'd  have  done 
once  and  for  ever  with  those  beasts  of  women  who 
abused  and  criticized  her.     Henceforth  she  would 


MUSLIN  219 

shut  her  door  against  them  all,  and  it  would  only  be 
open  to  men — young  men  for  her  daughters,  elderly 
men  for  herself.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
the  entertainment  began.  Light  refreshments,  con- 
sisting of  tea,  claret,  biscuits,  and  cigarettes,  were 
laid  out  in  the  dining-room.  Having  partaken,  the 
company,  consisting  of  three  colonels  and  some  half- 
dozen  subalterns,  went  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room. 
And  in  recognition  of  her  flirtation  with  Harding,  a 
young  man  replaced  Alice  at  the  piano,  and  for  half- 
a-crown  an  hour  supplied  the  necessary  music. 

Round  and  round  the  girls  went,  passing  in  turn 
out  of  the  arms  of  an  old  into  those  of  a  young  man, 
and  back  again.  If  they  stayed  their  feet  for  a 
moment,  Mrs.  Barton  glided  across  the  floor,  and, 
with  insinuating  gestures  and  intonations  of  voice, 
would  beg  of  them  to  continue.  She  declared  that 
it  was  la  grace  et  la  beaute,  etc.  The  merriment  did  not 
cease  until  half-past  six.  Some  of  the  company  then 
left,  and  some  few  were  detained  for  dinner.  A  new 
pianist  and  fresh  officers  arrived  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  dancing  was  continued  until  one  or  two  in  the 
morning.  To  yawning  subalterns  the  house  in 
Mount  Street  seemed  at  first  like  a  little  paradise. 
The  incessant  dancing  was  considered  fatiguing,  but 
there  were  interludes  in  which  claret  was  drunk, 
cigarettes  smoked,  and  loose  conversation  permitted 
in  the  dining-room. 

Then  the  dinners !  Mrs.  Barton's  dinners  are 
worthy  of  special  study.  Her  circle  of  acquaintances 
being  limited,  the  same  guests  were  generally  found 
at  her  table.  Lord  Dungory  always  sat  next  to  her. 
He  displayed  his  old-fashioned  shirt-front,  his  cravat, 


220  MUSLIN 

his  studs,  his  urbanity,  his  French  epigram.  Lord 
Rosshill  sat  opposite  him  ;  he  was  thin,  melancholy, 
aristocratic,  silent,  and  boring.  There  was  a  captain 
who,  since  he  had  left  the  army,  had  grown  to  the 
image  of  a  butler,  and  an  ashen-tinted  young  man 
who  wore  his  arm  in  a  sling  ;  and  an  old  man,  who 
looked  like  a  dirty  and  worn-out  broom,  and  who 
put  his  arm  round  the  backs  of  the  chairs.  These  and 
three  A.D.C.'s  made  up  the  party.  There  was  very 
little  talking,  and  what  there  was  was  generally  con- 
fined to  asking  the  young  ladies  if  they  had  been  to 
the  Castle,  and  if  they  liked  dancing. 

The  Marquis  was  a  constant,  although  an  unwilling 
guest  at  all  these  entertainments.  He  would  fain 
have  refused  Mrs.  Barton's  hospitalities,  but  so 
pressing  was  she  that  this  seemed  impossible.  There 
were  times  when  he  started  at  the  postman's  knock 
as  at  the  sound  of  a  Land  Leaguer's  rifle.  Too 
frequently  his  worst  fears  were  realized.  '  Mon  cher 
Marquis,  it  will  give  us  much  pleasure  if  you  will 
dine  with  us  to-morrow  night  at  half-past  seven.' 
f  Dear  Mrs.  Barton,  I  regret  extremely  that  I  am 
engaged  for  to-morrow  night.'  An  hour  later,  '  Mon 
cher  Marquis,  I  am  very  sorry  you  cannot  come  to- 
morrow night,  but  Thursday  will  suit  us  equally 
well.'  What  was  to  be  done?  A  second  excuse 
would  result  only  in  a  proposal  to  fix  a  day  next 
week ;  better  accept  and  get  it  over.  He  must 
do  this  or  send  a  rude  message  to  the  effect  that  he 
was  engaged  for  every  day  he  intended  to  dine  out 
that  season,  and  he  lacked  the  moral  courage  to 
write  such  a  letter.  Mrs.  Barton's  formula  for  re- 
ceiving the   Marquis  never  varied.      If  he   arrived 


MUSLIN  221 

early  he  found  Olive  waiting  to  receive  him  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  was  always  prepared  with  a 
buttonhole,  which  she  insisted  on  arranging  and 
pinning  into  his  coat.  Then  allusion  was  made  to 
the  forget-me-nots  that  the  bouquet  was  sure  to 
contain ;  and  laughing  vacantly — for  laughter  with 
Olive  took  the  place  of  conversation  —  she  fled 
through  the  rooms,  encouraging  him  to  pursue  her. 
During  dinner  attempts  were  made  to  exchange  a 
few  words,  but  without  much  success.  Nor  was  it 
until  Olive  pelted  him  with  flowers,  and  he  replied 
by  destroying  another  bouquet  and  applying  it  to 
the  same  purpose,  that  much  progress  was  made 
towards  intimacy.  But  this  little  scene  was  excep- 
tional, and  on  all  other  occasions  Lord  Kilcarney 
maintained  an  attitude  of  reserve. 

Mrs.  Barton  was  at  her  wits'  end.  Three  days 
ago  she  had  met  him  walking  in  Grafton  Street 
with  Violet ;  yesterday  she  had  caught  sight  of  him 
driving  towards  Fitzwilliam  Place  in  a  four-wheeler. 
She  had  fortunately  a  visit  to  pay  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood, and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  Marquis's 
cab  draw  up  before  the  Scullys'  door.  The  mere 
fact  that  he  should  use  a  cab  instead  of  an  outside 
car  was  a  point  to  consider,  but  when  she  noticed 
that  one  of  the  blinds  was  partially  drawn  down,  her 
heart  sank.  Nor  did  the  secret  of  this  suspicious 
visit  long  remain  her  exclusive  property.  As  if  re- 
vealed by  those  mysteriously  subtle  oral  and  visual 
faculties  observed  in  savage  tribes,  by  which  they 
divine  the  approach  of  their  enemies  or  their  prey, 
two  days  had  not  elapsed  before  the  tongue  of 
every  chaperon  was   tipped  with  the   story  of  the 


222  MUSLIN 

four-wheeler  and  the  half-drawn  blind,  but  it  was 
a  distinctly  latter-day  instinct  that  had  led  these 
ladies  to  speak  of  there  having  been  luggage  piled 
upon  the  roof  of  this  celebrated  cab.  Henceforth 
eye,  ear,  and  nostril  were  open,  and  in  the  quivering 
ardour  of  the  chase  they  scattered  through  the 
covers  of  Cork  Hill  and  Merrion  Square,  passing 
from  one  to  the  other,  by  means  of  sharp  yelps 
and  barkings,  every  indication  of  the  trail  that  came 
across  their  way.  Sometimes  hearkening  to  a  voice 
they  had  confidence  in,  they  rallied  at  a  single 
point,  and  then  an  old  bitch,  her  nose  in  the  air, 
her  capstrings  hanging  lugubriously  on  either  side 
of  her  weatherbeaten  cheeks,  would  utter  a  deep  and 
prolonged  baying ;  a  little  farther  on  the  scent  was 
recovered,  and,  with  sterns  wagging  and  bristles 
erect,  they  hunted  the  quarry  vigorously.  Every 
moment  he  was  expected  to  break — fear  was  even 
expressed  that  he  might  end  by  being  chopped. 

The  Shelbourne  Hotel  was  a  favourite  meet,  and 
in  the  ladies'  drawing-room  each  fresh  piece  of  news 
was  torn  with  avidity.  The  consumption  of  note- 
paper  was  extraordinary.  Two,  three,  four,  and  even 
five  sheets  of  paper  were  often  filled  with  what  these 
scavengeresses  could  rake  out  of  the  gutters  of 
gossip.  '  Ah  !  me  arm  aches,  and  the  sleeve  of  me 
little  coat  is  wore ;  I  am  so  eager  to  write  it  all  off 
to  me  ant,  that  I  am  too  impatient  to  wait  to  take  it 
off,'  was  the  verbal  form  in  which  the  girl  in  red 
explained  her  feelings  on  the  subject.  Bertha  Duffy 
declared  she  would  write  no  more ;  that  she  was 
ruining  herself  in  stamps.  Nor  were  the  pens  of  the 
Brennans  silent;  and  looking  over  their  shoulders, 


MUSLIN  223 

on  which  the  mantles  of  spinsterhood  were  fast 
descending,  one  read :  ( I  hear  they  danced  at  the 
Castle  three  times  together  last  night  ...  a  friend 
of  mine  saw  them  sitting  in  Merrion  Square  the 
whole  of  one  afternoon.  .  .  .  They  say  that  if  he 
marries  her,  that  he'll  be  ruined.  .  .  .  The  estates 
are  terribly  encumbered  .  .  .  his  family  are  in 
despair  about  it.  .  .  .  Violet  is  a  very  nice  girl,  but 
we  all  know  her  mother  sold  bacon  behind  a  counter 
in  Galway.  .  .  .  He  never  looks  at  Olive  Barton 
now ;  this  is  a  sad  end  to  her  beau,  and  after  feed- 
ing him  up  the  whole  season.  .  .  .  He  dined  there 
three  times  a  week :  Mrs.  Barton  took  the  house  on 
purpose  to  entertain  him.  ...  It  is  said  that  she 
offered  him  twenty  thousand  pounds  if  he'd  marry 
her  daughter.  .  .  .  The  money  that  woman  spends 
is  immense,  and  no  one  knows  whence  it  comes.' 

In  these  matrimonial  excitements  the  amatories 
of  the  lady  who  brought  the  A.D.C.  home  from  the 
Castle  passed  unheeded.  The  critical  gaze  of  her 
friends  was  sorely  distracted,  and  even  the  night 
porter  forgot  to  report  the  visits  of  her  young  gentle- 
men. May,  too,  profited  largely  by  the  present  fer- 
ment of  curiosity ;  and,  unobserved,  she  kept  her 
trysts  with  Fred  Scully  at  the  corners  of  this  and 
that  street,  and  in  the  hotel  they  passed  furtively 
down  this  passage  and  up  that  pair  of  stairs ;  when 
disturbed  they  hid  behind  the  doors. 

Mrs.  Gould  lived  in  ignorance  of  all  this  chamber- 
ing folly,  spending  her  time  either  writing  letters  or 
gossiping  about  Lord  Kilcarney  in  the  drawing-room. 
And  when  she  picked  up  a  fragment  of  fresh  news 
she  lost  not  a  moment,  but  put  on  her  bonnet  and 


224  MUSLIN 

carried  it  over  to  Mount  Street.  So  assiduous  was 
she  in  this  self-imposed  duty,  that  Mrs.  Barton  was 
obliged  at  last  to  close  her  door  against  this  obtrusive 
visitor. 

But  one  day,  after  a  moment  of  intense  reflection, 
Mrs.  Barton  concluded  that  she  was  losing  the 
battle — that  now,  in  the  eleventh  hour,  it  could 
only  be  snatched  out  of  defeat  by  a  bold  and 
determined  effort.  She  sat  down  and  penned  one 
of  her  admirable  invitations  to  dinner.  An  hour 
later  a  note  feebly  pleaded  a  '  previous  engagement.' 
Undaunted,  she  sat  down  again  and  wrote :  '  To- 
morrow will  suit  us  equally  well.'  The  Marquis 
yielded ;  and  Lord  Dungory  was  ordered,  when  he 
found  himself  alone  with  him  in  the  dining-room,  to 
lose  no  opportunity  of  insisting  upon  the  imminent 
ruin  of  all  Irish  landlords.  He  was  especially  enjoined 
to  say  that,  whatever  chance  of  escape  there  was  for 
the  owners  of  unencumbered  properties,  the  doom 
of  those  who  had  mortgages  to  pay  had  been  sounded. 
Milord  executed  his  task  with  consummate  ability ; 
and  when  the  gra?id  parti  entered  the  drawing-room, 
his  thoughts  were  racked  with  horrible  forebodings. 
The  domain  woods,  the  pride  of  centuries,  he  saw 
plundered  and  cut  down ;  lawns,  pleasure-grounds, 
and  gai-dens  distributed  among  peasants,  and  he,  a 
miserable  outcast,  starving  in  a  Belgian  boarding- 
house.  Mrs.  Barton's  eyes  brightened  at  the  dis- 
tressed expression  of  his  face.  Olive  brought  in  the 
buttonhole  and  went  to  the  piano ;  Milord  engaged 
Alice's  attention ;  and  the  Marquis  was  led  into  the 
adjoining  room. 

'  The  season  is  now  drawing  to   its  close,'   Mrs. 


MUSLIN  225 

Barton  said  ;  '  we  shall  be  soon  returning  to  Galway. 
We  shall  be  separating.  I  know  Olive  likes  you, 
but  if  there  is  no — if  it  is  not  to  be,  I  should  like 
to  tell  her  not  to  think  about  it  any  more.' 

The  Marquis  felt  the  earth  gliding.  What  could 
have  tempted  the  woman  to  speak  like  this  to  him  ? 
What  answer  was  he  to  make  her  ?  He  struggled 
with  words  and  thoughts  that  gave  way,  as  he  strove 
to  formulate  a  sentence,  like  water  beneath  the  arms 
of  one  drowning. 

1  Oh,  really,  Mrs.  Barton,'  he  said,  stammering, 
speaking  like  one  in  a  dream,  '  you  take  me  by  sur- 
prise. I  did  not  expect  this  ;  you  certainly  are  too 
kind.  In  proposing  this  marriage  to  me,  you  do  me 
an  honour  I  did  not  anticipate,  but  you  know  it  is 
difficult  offhand,  for  I  am  bound  to  say  ...  at  least 
I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  I  am  in  love  with  your 
daughter.  .  .  .  She  is,  of  course,  very  beautiful,  and 
no  one  admires  her  more  than  I,  but ' 

1  Olive  will  have  twenty  thousand  pounds  paid 
down  on  her  wedding-day ;  not  promised,  you  know, 
but  paid  down  ;  and  in  the  present  times  I  think 
this  is  more  than  most  girls  can  say.  Most  Irish 
properties  are  embarrassed,  mortgaged/  she  con- 
tinued, risking  everything  to  gain  everything,  (  and 
twenty  thousand  pounds  would  be  a  material  help 
to  most  men.  At  my  death  she  will  have  more ; 
I ' 

1  Oh,  Mrs.  Barton,  do  not  let  us  speak  of  that !' 
cried  the  little  man. 

'  And  why  not  ?  Does  it  prove  that  because  we 
are  practical,  we  do  not  care  for  a  person  ?  I  quite 
understand  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to 


226  MUSLIN 

marry  without  money,  and  that  Olive  will  have 
twenty  thousand  paid  down  on  her  wedding-day  will 
not  prevent  you  from  being  very  fond  of  her.  On 
the  contrary,  I  should  think ' 

'  Twenty  thousand  pounds  is,  of  course,  a  great 
deal  of  money,'  said  the  little  man,  shrinking,  terror- 
stricken,  from  a  suddenly  protruding  glimpse  of  the 
future  with  which  Milord  had  previously  poisoned 
his  mind. 

'  Yes,  indeed  it  is,  and  in  these  times,'  urged 
Mrs.  Barton. 

The  weak  grey  eyes  were  cast  down,  abashed  by 
the  daring  determination  of  the  brown. 

'  Of  course  Olive  is  a  beautiful  girl,'  he  said. 

e  And  she  is  so  fond  of  you,  and  so  full  of  affec- 
tion. .  .  .' 

The  situation  was  now  tense  with  fear,  anxiety, 
apprehension  ;  and  with  resolute  fingers  Mrs.  Barton 
tightened  the  chord  until  the  required  note  vibrated 
within  the  moral  consciousness.  The  poor  Marquis 
felt  his  strength  ebbing  away ;  he  was  powerless  as 
one  lying  in  the  hot  chamber  of  a  Turkish  bath. 
Would  no  one  come  to  help  him  ?  The  implacable 
melody  of  Dream  Faces,  which  Olive  hammered  out 
on  the  piano,  agonized  him.  If  she  would  stop  for 
one  moment  he  would  find  the  words  to  tell  her 
mother  that  he  loved  Violet  Scully  and  would  marry 
none  other.  But  bang,  bang,  bang  the  left  hand 
pounded  the  bass  into  his  stunned  ears,  and  the 
eyes  that  he  feared  were  fixed  upon  him.  He 
gasped  for  words,  he  felt  like  a  drunkard  who 
clutches  the  air  as  he  reels  over  a  precipice,  and  the 
shades  of  his  ancestors  seemed  to  crowd  menacingly 


MUSLIN  227 

around  him.  He  strove  against  his  fears  until  a  thin 
face  with  luminous  eyes  shone  through  the  drifting 
wrack  like  a  stars. 

'  But  we  have  seen  so  little  of  each  other/  he  said 
at  last ;  '  Miss  Barton  is  a  great  beauty,  I  know,  and 
nobody  appreciates  her  beauty  more  than  I,  but  I 
am  not  what  you  call  in  love  with  her.' 

He  deplored  the  feebleness  of  his  words,  and  Mrs. 
Barton  swooped  upon  him  again. 

'  You  do  not  love  her  because,  as  you  say,  you 
have  seen  very  little  of  each  other.  We  are  going 
down  to  Brookfield  to-morrow.  We  shall  be  very 
glad  if  you  will  come  with  us,  and  in  the  country 
you  will  have  an  opportunity  of  judging,  of  knowing 
her :   and  she  is  such  an  affectionate  little  thing.' 

Affrighted,  the  Marquis  sought  again  for  words, 
and  he  glanced  at  his  torturer  timidly,  like  the 
hare  on  the  ever-nearing  hounds.  Why  did  she 
pursue  him,  he  asked,  in  this  terrible  way  ?  Had 
she  gone  mad  ?  What  was  he  to  say  ?  He  had  not 
the  courage  to  answer  no  to  her  face.  Besides,  if 
Violet  would  not  have  him,  he  might  as  well  save 
the  family  estates.  If  Violet  refused  him  !  Then 
he  didn't  care  what  became  of  him  !  He  sought, 
and  he  struggled  for  words,  for  words  that  would 
save  him ;  and,  in  this  hour  of  deep  tribulation, 
words  came  and  they  saved  him. 

'  I  have  a  great  deal  of  business  to  attend  to 
to-morrow.  I  am — that  is  to  say,  my  solicitor  is, 
raising  for  me  a  large  sum  of  money  at  four  per  cent. 
On  one  large  mortgage  I  am  paying  six  per  cent., 
therefore  if  I  can  get  the  money  at  four  I  shall  be 
by  some  hundreds  of  pounds  a  richer  man  than  I  am 


228  MUSLIN 

at  present.  At  the  end  of  the  week  this  matter  will 
be  settled.  I  will  write  to  you  and  say  when  I  shall 
be  able  to  accept  your  invitation.' 

Mrs.  Barton  would  have  preferred  to  have  brought 
the  matter  at  once  to  a  conclusion,  but  in  the  hesita- 
tion that  ensued,  the  Marquis,  unable  to  withstand 
the  strain  set  upon  his  feelings  any  longer,  moved 
away  from  her.  And  in  the  next  room,  to  save  him- 
self from  further  persecution,  he  engaged  at  once 
in  conversation  with  Alice.  Ten  minutes  after  he 
said  good-night.  To  get  out  of  the  light  into  the 
dark,  to  feel  the  cool  wind  upon  his  cheek,  oh  ! 
what  a  relief !  '  What  could  have  persuaded  that 
woman  to  speak  to  me  as  she  did  ?  She  must  be 
mad.'  He  walked  on  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  guineas 
she  had  promised  him  chinking  dubiously  through 
his  brain.  Then  stopping  suddenly,  overcome  by 
nerve-excitement,  he  threw  his  arms  in  the  air :  his 
features  twitched  convulsively.  The  spasm  passed  ; 
and,  unconscious  of  all  save  the  thoughts  that  held 
and  tore  him — their  palpitating  prey — he  walked 
onwards.  .  .  .  Black  ruin  on  one  side,  and  oh  !  what 
sweet  white  vision  of  happiness  on  the  other  !  Why 
was  he  thus  tortured — why  was  he  thus  torn  on  the 
rack  of  such  a  terrible  discussion  ?  He  stopped 
again,  and  his  weak  neck  swayed  plaintively.  Then, 
in  the  sullen  calm  that  followed,  the  thought  crossed 
his  mind  :  If  he  only  knew.  .  .  .  She  might  refuse 
him  ;  if  so,  he  did  not  care  what  became  of  him,  and 
he  would  accept  the  other  willingly.  But  would  she 
refuse  him?  That  he  must  know  at  once.  If  she 
did  refuse,  he  would,  at  all  events,  escape  the  black 
looks  of  his  relations,  and  in  the  cowardice  of  the 


MUSLIN  229 

thought  the  weary  spirit  was  healed,  assuaged,  as 
tired  limbs  might  be  in  a  bath  of  cool,  clear  water. 
Why  lose  a  moment  ?  It  was  only  half- past  ten  — 
an  ' outside'  would  take  him  in  less  than  two  minutes 
to  Fitzwilliam  Place.     Yes,  he  would  go. 

And  as  the  car  clattered  he  feasted  on  the  white 
thin  face  and  the  grey  allurements  of  her  eyes.  But 
if  she  weren't  at  home. 

He  was  shown  upstairs.  Mother  and  daughter 
were  alone,  talking  over  the  fire  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Nothing  could  be  more  propitious,  but  his 
fears  returned  to  him,  and  when  he  strove  to  explain 
the  lateness  of  his  visit  his  face  had  again  grown 
suddenly  haggard  and  worn.  Violet  exchanged 
glances,  and  said  in  looks,  if  not  in  words :  'It  is 
clear  they  have  been  hunting  him  pretty  closely 
to-day.' 

'  I  must  apologize,'  he  said,  '  for  calling  on  you  at 
such  an  hour  ;  I  really  did  not  think  it  was  so  late, 
but  the  fact  is  I  was  rather  anxious  to  see.  .  .   .' 

'  But  won't  you  sit  down,  Lord  Kilcarney  ?'  said 
Violet.  '  I  assure  you  we  never  go  to  bed  before 
twelve,  and  sometimes  we  sit  up  here  until  one — 
don't  we,  mamma  ?' 

Mrs.  Scully  smiled  jocosely,  and  the  Marquis  sat 
down.  In  an  instant  his  fate  was  decided.  Over- 
come by  the  girl's  frail  sweetness,  by  the  pellucid 
gaiety  of  her  grey  eyes,  he  surrendered  ;  and  his 
name  and  fortune  fluttered  into  her  lap,  helplessly 
as  a  blown  leaf.     He  said  : 

'  I  came  to  see  you  to-night  ...  I  took  the  liberty 
of  calling  on  you  at  this  late  hour,  because  things 
had  occurred  that  .  .  .  well,  I  mean  .  .  .  you  must 


230  MUSLIN 

have  observed  that  I  was  attached  to  you.  I  don't 
know  if  you  guessed  it,  but  the  fact  is  that  I  never 
cared  for  anyone  as  I  do  for  you,  and  I  felt  I  could 
bear  with  uncertainty  no  longer,  and  that  I  must 
come  to-night,  and  ask  you  if  you  will  have  me.' 

Violet  raised  her  eyes. 

'  Say  yes,'  murmured  the  Marquis,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  in  the  words  life  had  fallen  from  his 
lips. 

f  Yes,'  was  the  answer,  and  he  clasped  the  thin 
hand  she  extended  to  him. 

1  Ah,  how  happy  you  have  made  me,  I  never 
thought  such  honours  were  in  store  for  me,'  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Scully.  The  discipline  of  years  was 
lost  in  a  moment ;  and,  reverting  to  her  long-buried 
self,  she  clasped  the  Marquis  to  her  agitated  bosom. 
Violet  looked  annoyed,  ashamed  ;  and  Mrs.  Scully, 
whom  excitement  had  stripped  of  all  her  grand 
manners,  said  : 

'  And  now,  me  dear  children,  I'll  leave  you  to 
yerselves.' 

The  lovers  sat  side  by  side.  Violet  thought  of 
the  great  love  she  had  inspired,  and  the  Marquis  of 
the  long  years  of  happiness  that  would — that  must 
now  be  his,  of  the  frail  grace  that  as  a  bland  odour 
seemed  to  float  about  his  beloved.  And  now  that 
she  was  his,  he  would  have  her  know  that  his  love 
of  her  rose  out  of  his  deepest  sense  of  soul ;  but 
words  were  weak :   he  seemed  to  be  tongue-tied. 

'  Where  did  you  dine  to-night  ?'  she  said  suddenly. 

'  With  the  Bartons.' 

He  told  her  everything — of  the  proposal  and  the 
invitation  to  Brookfield. 


MUSLIN  231 

'  And  are  you  going  down  to  Galway  to  stay  with 
them  ?' 

'Of  course  not.  How  can  you  ask  such  a 
question  ?' 

'  And  why  not — why  shouldn't  you  go  ?  I  wish 
you  would/  she  added  ;  and  the  light  in  her  grey 
eyes  was  malign. 

1  You're  joking  ?  You  surely  don't  mean  what  you 
say.     I  thought  you  said  you  loved  me.' 

'  Yes,  my  dear  Harry,  that  is  the  very  reason. 
We  love  each  other,  therefore  I  know  I  can  trust 
you.' 

He  pressed  the  hand — the  silken  skin,  the  palm 
delicately  moist — in  recognition  of  her  kind  words. 

'  I  wouldn't  go  for  anything  in  the  world.  I  hate 
those  people.  'Pon  my  word,  I  don't  think  anything 
would  tempt  me  to  spend  a  week  with  them  in  the 
country.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  could.' 

The  Marquis  laughed.  '  Yes,  you  could — you 
could  tempt  me  to  do  anything.  But  why  should 
you  want  me  to  go  and  spend  a  week  with  them  in 
Galway  ?' 

1  Because,  dear,  they  were  rude  to  me  ;  because,' 
she  added,  casting  down  her  eyes — 'because  they 
tried  to  buy  you  from  me.  That  is  why  I  should 
like  to  humiliate  them.' 

The  enchantment  of  the  Marquis  was  completed, 
and  he  said : 

'  What,  a  whole  week  away  from  you  !  a  whole 
week  with  Mrs.  Barton  !     I  could  not  endure  it.' 

'  What,  not  for  my  sake  ?' 

'  Anything  for  your  sake,  darling.'       He  clasped 


232  MUSLIN 

her  in  his  arms,  and  then  they  lapsed  into  silence 
that  to  him  was  even  sweeter  than  the  kiss  she  had 
given  him.  Love's  deepest  delight  is  the  ineffable 
consciousness  of  our  own  weakness.  We  drink  the 
sweetened  cup  in  its  entirety  when,  having  ceased  to 
will,  we  abandon  ourselves  with  the  lethal  languors 
of  the  swimmer  to  the  vague  depths  of  dreams. 
And  it  was  past  midnight  when  the  Marquis  left 
Fitzwilliam  Place.  The  ladies  accompanied  him 
downstairs  ;  their  hands  helped  him  to  his  hat  and 
coat,  and  then  the  lock  slipped  back  sharply,  and 
in  the  gloom,  broken  in  one  spot  by  the  low-burning 
gas,  the  women  wondered. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  mamma  !  I  am  so  happy  !' 
the  girl  exclaimed,  and,  weeping  passionately,  she 
threw  herself  for  rest  upon  Mrs.  Scully's  arms. 

'  Yes,  my  child ;  you  have  been  very  good,  you 
have  made  me  very  happy.  You'll  be  a  marchioness. 
Who  would  have  thought  I'd  have  lived  to  see  all 
this  honour  when  I  served  in  the  little  shop  at 
Gal  way  !' 

At  the  mention  of  the  shop  Violet  recovered  her 
composure,  and  mother  and  daughter  listened  to  the 
receding  footfalls. 

1 1  wonder  if  he  is  happy,'  Violet  murmured  ;  '  as 
happy  as  I  am.  For  I  do  like  him.  He  is  a  good 
sort.' 

'  Your  happiness  is  a  different  happiness,'  Mrs. 
Scully  answered. 

Like  a  flowering  tree,  a  luxuriant  joy  bloomed  in 
the  Marquis's  heart ;  in  its  shade  and  fragrance  his 
thoughts  lay  supinely ;  and,  a  prey  to  many  floating 
and  fanciful  imaginings,  he  walked  onwards  through 


MUSLIN  233 

the  darkness.  In  the  lowering  skies  he  saw  the  fair 
face  that  had  led  him  to  the  verge  on  which  he  now 
stood. 

'Was  anybody  as  happy  as  he?  And  what  did 
his  happiness  mean  ?'  he  asked  himself. 

Shades  flitted  across  yellow  window-panes,  and  he 
remembered  he  had  received  an  invitation  for  this 
very  ball. 

Cats  slunk  through  the  area  railings ;  policemen 
moved  from  their  hiding  corners  ;  a  lover  passed  on 
with  his  dreams. 

XXI 

Mrs.  Barton  rarely  took  anyone  into  her  confi- 
dence, and  her  plan  for  the  capture  of  the  Marquis 
was  locked  within  her  breast.  Not  to  her  husband, 
nor  yet  to  Milord,  did  she  think  of  going  for  advice. 
Her  special  experience  of  life  had  taught  her  to 
trust  none,  to  be  self-reliant,  and  never  to  give  up 
hope.  For  as  she  often  said,  it  is  the  last  effort  that 
wins  the  battle.  Mrs.  Barton's  knowledge  of  the 
world,  when  it  came  to  be  analyzed,  was  only  that  of 
the  courtesan — skin  deep. 

Two  days  after  she  received  a  note  from  the 
Marquis,  saying  he  would  be  glad  to  spend  a  week 
with  them  at  Brookfield.  She  read  it  quietly,  slipped 
it  into  the  pocket  of  the  black  silk  that  covered 
the  unseen  feet,  and  glided  out  of  the  room.  Every 
detail  was  clear  to  her.  They  must  leave  Dublin 
to-morrow  morning  ;  they  need  not  trouble  about 
calling  on  a  pack  of  women,  but  they  would  have  all 
their  men  friends  to  dinner. 


234  MUSLIN 

Mr.  Barton,  when  he  was  informed  of  these  sud- 
den determinations,  was  in  the  act  of  rehearsing  a 
song  he  was  to  sing  the  following  day  at  a  concert. 

'  But,  my  dear,'  he  said,  tightening  one  of  the 
strings;  '  the  public  will  be  awfully  disappointed.' 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  yes ;  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  have 
my  reasons — serious  reasons  ;  and  in  this  world  we 
must  only  do  what's  right.' 

'  Then  in  the  next  world  we  shall  be  able  to  do 
everything  that's  wrong/  said  Mr.  Barton  ;  and  he 
threw  back  his  blond  locks  with  troubadour-like 
waves  of  his  lymphatic  hand.  '  I  shall  like  the  next 
world  better  than  this,'  he  added,  and  his  wife  and 
daughter  laughed  ;  for  papa  was  supposed  to  be  very 
naughty. 

'  Olive,  dear ' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  Olive. 
I  shall  change  my  name.  Captain  Talbot  was 
chaffing  me  about  it  yesterday.  Everybody  chaffs 
me  about  it.' 

'  Never  mind,  my  dear  ;  it  makes  a  subject  of 
conversation.  But  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  we 
shall  have  to  start  for  Brookfield  to-morrow.' 

1  Go  to  Brookfield  !  I  couldn't  possibly  leave 
Dublin  yet  a  while ;  what  would  all  my  young  men 
do — they'd  die  of  broken  hearts  !' 

'  It  won't  matter  much  if  they  do ;  there  aren't  a 
dozen  worth  two  thousand  a  year  each.' 

(  No  ?  You  are  joking,  mamma.  And  the  Mar- 
quis ?' 

'  That's  a  secret,  dear.' 

1  Then  you  don't  think  he'll  propose  to  me  after 
all;  and  I  gave  up  Edward — Captain  Hibbert.' 


MUSLIN  235 

'  I  thought  you  head  forgotten  that  horrid  man's 
name.  I  didn't  say,  dear,  that  the  Marquis  wouldn't 
propose  to  you — of  course  he  will.  But  we  must 
leave  Dublin  to-morrow — I  have  serious  reasons.' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  I  didn't  think  you  were  so  cruel, 
to  go  back  to  that  hateful  place,  where  everybody 
talks  of  rents,  and  that  odious  Land  League.' 

'  Now,  I  will  not  allow  my  darling  to  cry  like 
that,'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barton,  and  she  threw  her 
arms  round  the  girl's  shoulders.  '  I  didn't  say  that 
there  wouldn't  be  a  man  within  seven  miles.  On 
the  contrary,  there  will  be  one  very  charming  man 
indeed.' 

'  What  do  you  mean,  mamma  ?' 

'  That's  a  secret — that's  a  secret.' 

Alice  was  told  that  she  had  better  come  home 
early  that  afternoon,  so  that  she  might  have  plenty 
of  time  to  pack  her  own  things  and  help  her  sister 
with  hers ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  unbelievable  that 
she  was  at  last  leaving  that  hateful  little  varnished 
floor,  complimenting  old  beaux  and  young  A.D.C.'s. 

But  if  to  nobody  else,  she  must  say  good-bye  to 
May.  She  had  hardly  seen  her  since  the  night  of 
the  State  ball — the  night  she  had  given  Fred  Scully 
permission  to  see  her  in  her  room.  She  found  her 
in  the  ladies'  drawing-room. 

'  How  do  you  do,  May  ?' 

'  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Alice  ?  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you.      What  a  dreadful  day  !' 

'  Yes,  isn't  it  ?    Don't  you  find  it  very  depressing  ?' 

•  I  should  think  I  did.  I'm  feeling  rather  out  of 
sorts.  Do  you  ever  feel  out  of  sorts  ?  you  know, 
when  everything  seems  as  if  it  were  reflected  in  a 


236  MUSLIN 

darkened  glass  ?  There  are  times  when  we  girls 
are  nervous  and  weak,  and  ready  to  quarrel  with 
anyone.  I  don't  know  what  I  wish  for  now  ;  I  think 
I  should  like  to  go  back  to  the  country.' 

1  We  are  going  back  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  You  don't  say  so ;  and  how's  that  ?  There  are 
plenty  of  balls  and  afternoon  dances.  What  does 
Olive  say  to  going  home  ?' 

'She  doesn't  mind.  You  know  mamma  always 
said  she  would  return  immediately  after  the  Castle 
balls.' 

'  And  now  that  it  is  all  over,  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  the  Castle.  Did  it  come  up  to  your  ex- 
pectations ?' 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  think  much  about  the  matter. 
I  am  not  so  fond  of  dancing  as  you  are.' 

'  Oh,  goodness  me,  goodness  me,  how  ill  I  do  feel,' 
said  May,  as  she  started  and  yawned  in  a  way  that 
betokened  the  nervous  lassitude  she  was  suffering 
from. 

'  Perhaps  you  had  better  see  the  doctor,'  said 
Alice  significantly. 

f  I'm  worried.  Fred  hasn't  been  as  nice  lately  as 
he  used  to  be.' 

'  What  has  he  done  ?' 

'  Last  night  he  promised  to  meet  me  in  the  Square, 
and  he  wrote  to  say  he  couldn't  come,  that  he  was 
forced  to  go  and  see  an  important  customer  about 
some  horses.' 

(  Perhaps  he  had.' 

'I  dare  say  he  had,  but  what  of  that?  It  does 
not  make  it  any  less  disagreeable  for  me  to  be 
disappointed.' 


MUSLIN  237 

f  How  cross  you  are,  May  !  I  came  out  on  purpose 
to  talk  to  you  on  this  very  subject.  I  hope  you 
won't  be  angry,  but  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you 
that  people  are  beginning  to  talk  about  you.' 

'  And  what  do  they  say  ?' 

'Well,  they  say  many  unpleasant  things ;  you 
know  how  ill-natured  people  are.' 

I  Yes,  but  what  do  they  say  ?' 

'  They  say  you  are  desperately  in  love  with  Fred 
Scully.' 

'  Supposing  I  were ;  is  there  any  very  great  harm 
in  that  ?' 

I I  only  want  to  put  you  on  your  guard,  May  dear  ; 
and  since  I  have  come  here  for  the  purpose  of 
speaking  out,  I  had  better  do  so,  however  unpleasant 
it  may  be ;  and  I  must  say  that  you  often  forget 
yourself  when  he  is  in  the  room,  and  by  your  whole 
manner  betray  your  feelings.     You  look  at  him ' 

'You  needn't  talk.  Now  that  Harding  has  left 
town,  these  moral  reflections  come  very  easy  to  you  !' 

Alice  blushed  a  little  ;  she  trembled,  and  pursuing 
her  advantage,  May  said  : 

'  Oh,  yes  ;  I  have  watched  you  in  the  Castle  sitting 
out  dances  ;  and  when  girls  like  you  butter  !  'Pon 
my  word,  it  was  painful  to  look  at  you.' 

'  Mr.  Harding  and  I  talked  merely  of  books  and 
pictures.' 

'  If  you  come  here  to  insinuate  that  Fred  and 
I  are  in  the  habit  of  indulging  in  improper  con- 
versation ...  I  didn't  expect  this  from  you.  I 
shan't  stop  another  moment.  I  shan't  speak  to 
you  again.' 

Picking  up  her  novel,  and  deaf  to  all  explanations, 


238  MUSLIN 

May  walked  haughtily  out  of  the  room.  Alice  would 
have  given  much  to  help ;  and,  her  heart  rilled  with 
gentle  disappointment,  she  returned  home.  The 
evening  was  spent  in  packing  ;  and  next  morning  at 
dawn,  looking  tired,  their  eyes  still  heavy  with  sleep, 
the  Bartons  breakfasted  for  the  last  time  in  Mount 
Street. 

At  the  Broadstone  they  met  Lord  Dungory.  Then, 
their  feet  and  knees  cosily  wrapped  up  in  furs,  with 
copies  of  the  Freeman's  Journal  lying  on  the  top,  they 
deplored  the  ineffectiveness  of  Mr.  Forster's  Coercion 
Act.  Eight  hundred  people  were  in  prison,  and  still 
the  red  shadow  of  murder  pointed  across  the  land. 
Milord  read  from  the  newspaper : 

'  A  dastardly  outage  was  committed  last  night  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Mullingar.      A  woman  named 

Mary  had    some    differences   with    her    sister 

Bridget .     One  day,  after  some  angry  words,  it 

appears  that  she  left  the  house,  and  seeing  a  man 
working  in  a  potato-field,  she  asked  him  if  he  could 
do  anything  to  help  her.  He  scratched  his  head, 
and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  said  he  was 
going  to  meet  a  "  party,"  and  he  would  see  what 
could  be  done.  On  the  following  day  he  suggested 
that  Bridget  might  be  removed  for  the  sum  of  one 

pound.      Mary  could    not,    however,    procure 

more  than  fifteen  shillings,  and  a  bargain  was  struck. 
On  the  night  arranged  for  the  assassination  Mary 
wished  to  leave  the  house,  not  caring  to  see  her 
sister  shot  in  her  presence,  but  Pat  declared  that 
her  absence  would  excite  suspicion.  In  the  words 
of  one  of  the  murdei'ers,  the  deed  was  accomplished 
"■  nately  and  without  unnecessary  fuss."  ' 


MUSLIN  239 

1  I  wonder/  said  Mrs.  Barton,  '  what  those  wretches 
will  have  to  do  before  the  Government  will  consent 
to  suspend  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  and  place  the 
country  in  the  hands  of  the  military.  Do  they  never 
think  of  how  wickedly  they  are  behaving,  and  of 
how  God  will  punish  them  when  they  die  ?  Do  they 
never  think  of  their  immortal  souls  ?' 

'  L'dme  du  paysan  se  vautre  dans  la  boue  comme  la 
mienne  se  plait  dans  la  sole.' 

1  Dans  la  sole  !  dans  la  sole  !  oh,  ce  Milord,  ce  Milord  !' 

'  Oui,  madame,'  he  added,  lowering  his  voice,  '  dans 
le  blanc  paradis  de  voire  corsage.1 

Three  days  after  life  at  Brookfield  had  resumed 
its  ordinary  course.  Once  breakfast  was  over, 
Arthur  retired  to  the  consideration  of  the  pectoral 
muscles  of  the  ancient  Briton,  Miloi-d  drank  his 
glass  of  sherry  at  half-past  one,  and  Mrs.  Barton 
devoted  herself  to  the  double  task  of  amusing  him 
and  encouraging  Olive  with  visions  of  future  fame. 
Alice  was  therefore  left  definitely  to  herself,  and 
without  hindrance  or  comment  was  allowed  to  set 
up  her  writing-table,  and  spend  as  much  time  as  she 
pleased  in  her  bedroom. 

Several  sheets  of  foolscap  paper  covered  with  large 
open  handwriting  lay  upon  the  table.  Upon  the 
first  page,  with  a  line  ruled  beneath  it,  stood  the 
title  :  '  The  Diary  of  a  Plain  Girl — Notes  and  Sensa- 
tions.' She  had  just  laid  aside  her  pen  and  was 
waiting  for  Cecilia. 

'  Oh,  Alice  darling,  how  are  you  ?  I  am  delighted 
— I  am  so  delighted  to  see  you.  Let  me  kiss  you, 
let  me  see  you  ;  I  have  been  longing  for  you  for 
weeks — for  months.' 


240  MUSLIN 

Alice  bent  her  face  down,  and  then,  holding  each 
other's  hands,  the  girls  stood  looking  through  a  deep 
and  expressive  silence  into  each  other's  eyes. 

'  I  wish,  Alice,  I  could  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to 
have  you  back  :  it  seems  like  heaven  to  see  you 
again.  You  look  so  nice,  so  true,  so  sweet,  so 
perfect.  There  never  was  anyone  so  perfect  as  you, 
Alice.' 

'  Cecilia  dear,  you  shouldn't  talk  to  me  like  that ; 
it  is  absurd.     Indeed,  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  right.' 

e  Not  quite  right,'  replied  the  cripple  sadly ; 
'  what  do  you  mean  ?  Why  is  it  wrong — why  should 
it  be  wrong  for  me  to  love  you  ?' 

'  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is  wrong ;  you  mis- 
understand me  ;  but — but — well,  I  don't  know  how 
to  explain  myself,  but ' 

'  I  know,  I  know,  I  know,'  said  Cecilia,  and  her 
nervous  sensitivity  revealed  thoughts  in  Alice's  mind 
— thoughts  of  which  Alice  herself  was  not  distinctly 
conscious,  just  as  a  photograph  exposes  irregularities 
in  the  texture  of  a  leaf  that  the  naked  eye  would 
not  perceive. 

'  If  Harding  were  to  speak  to  you  so,  you  wouldn't 
think  it  wrong.' 

Alice's  face  flushed  a  little,  and  she  said,  with  a 
certain  resoluteness  in  her  voice,  '  Cecilia,  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  in  this  way.  You  give 
me  great  pain.' 

I  I  am  sorry  if  I  do,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  am 
jealous  of  the  words  that  are  spoken  to  you,  of  the 
air  you  breathe,  of  the  ground  you  walk  upon. 
How,  then,  can  I  help  hating  that  man  ?' 

I I  do   not  wish   to   argue   this   point  with   you, 


MUSLIN  241 

Cecilia,  nor  am  I  sure  that  I  understand  it.  There 
is  no  one  I  like  better  than  you,  dear,  but  that  we 
should  be  jealous  of  each  other  is  absurd.' 

'  For  you  perhaps,  but  not  for  me.'  Cecilia  looked 
at  Alice  reproachfully,  and  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
morose  silence  she  said  : 

'  You  received  the  long  letter  I  wrote  to  you 
about  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  Cecilia,  and  I  answered  it.  It  seems  to  me 
very  foolish  to  pronounce  condemnatory  opinion  on 
the  whole  world  ;  and  particularly  for  you  who  have 
seen  so  little  of  it.' 

'  That  doesn't  matter.  People  are  blinded  by 
their  passions ;  but  when  these  have  worn  them- 
selves out,  they  see  the  truth  in  all  its  horrible 
nakedness.  One  of  these  days  you'll  tell  me  that 
I  am  right.  You  have  been  a  good  deal  in  the 
world  lately ;  tell  me  if  you  have  found  it  beautiful. 
You  didn't  believe  me  when  I  told  you  that  men 
were  vile  and  abominable ;  you  said  there  were 
good  men  in  the  world,  that  you  were  sure  of  it. 
Have  you  found  them  ?  Was  Mr.  Harding  so  very 
perfect  ?' 

Alice  coloured  again ;  she  hesitated,  and  in  the 
silence  Cecilia  again  divined  her  friend's  thoughts. 

'  A  very  poor  ideal  indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  set  yourself — to  make  the  best  of  this  wretched 
world.' 

'  I  cannot  understand  what  good  can  come  of 
craving  after  the  unattainable,'  said  Alice,  looking 
earnestly  out  of  her  grey  sharp  eyes. 

'  True  beauty  lies  only  in  the  unattainable,'  said 
Cecilia,  lifting  her  eyes  with  that  curious  movement 

Q 


242  MUSLIN 

of  the  eyeball  by  which  painters  represent  faith  and 
mysticism. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  Alice  said : 

'  But  you'll  have  some  tea,  will  you  not,  Cecilia  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  but  don't  let  us  go  downstairs.' 

'  We'll  have  it  up  here  ;  Barnes  will  bring  it  up.' 

'  Oh,  that  will  be  so  nice.' 

The  girls  drew  closer  to  the  fire,  and  in  its  uniting 
warmth  they  looked  into  the  ardent  face  of  their 
friendship,  talking,  at  first,  conscious  of  the  appro- 
priateness of  their  conversation  ;  but  soon  forgetful 
of  the  more  serious  themes  they  had  been  discussing, 
questions  were  asked  and  answered,  and  comments 
passed,  upon  the  presentations,  the  dresses,  the 
crowds,  upon  all  their  acquaintances. 

'  It  is  given  out,  Alice  dear,  that  Lord  Kilcarney 
is  coming  down  to  stay  at  Brookfield.     Is  it  true  ?' 

'  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it.  Whom  did  you  hear 
it  from  ?' 

'  Well,  the  Duftys  wrote  it  to  my  sisters.  The 
Duffys,  you  know,  have  all  the  Dublin  news.' 

'  What  dreadful  gossips  they  are  !  And  the  won- 
derful part  of  it  is  that  they  often  tell  you  that 
things  have  happened  long  before  they  do  happen.' 

'  Yes ;  I  have  noticed  that.  They  anticipate  the 
news.' 

The  girls  laughed  lightly,  and  Cecilia  continued  : 

'  But  tell  me,  which  do  you  think  he  admires 
most,  Olive  or  Violet  ?  The  rumour  goes  that  he 
pays  Violet  great  attentions.  The  family  is,  of 
course,  wild  about  it.  She  hasn't  a  penny  piece,  and 
Olive,  they  say,  has  a  good  deal  of  money.' 

'  I  don't  know.' 


MUSLIN  243 

'  You  must  show  me  the  dress  you  wore.  You 
described  it  beautifully  in  your  letter.  You  must 
have  looked  very  sweet.     Did  everybody  say  so  ?' 

'  I  am  not  sure  that  they  did.  Men,  you  know, 
do  not  always  admire  what  women  do.' 

1 1  should  think  not.  Men  only  admire  beastli- 
ness.' 

'Cecilia  dear,  you  shouldn't  talk  like  that;  it 
isn't  nice.' 

Cecilia  looked  at  Alice  wistfully,  and  she  said  : 

'  But  tell  me  about  the  presentations.  I  suppose 
there  wei'e  an  immense  number  of  people  present  ?' 

e  Yes,  and  particularly  debutantes ;  there  were  a 
great  number  presented  this  year.  It  was  considered 
a  large  Drawing-Room.' 

'  And  how  are  you  presented  ?  I've  heard  my 
sister  speak  about  it,  but  I  never  quite  understood.' 

At  that  moment  Barnes  brought  in  the  tea.  She 
set  it  on  a  little  table  used  for  the  purpose. 

'  There  is  a  letter  for  you,  miss,  on  the  tray,'  she 
said  as  she  left  the  room  ;  '  it  came  by  the  afternoon 
post.' 

Without  answering,  Alice  continued  to  pour  out 
the  tea,  but  when  she  handed  Cecilia  her  cup,  she 
said,  surprised  at  the  dull,  sullen  stare  fixed  upon 
her  : 

( What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you  look  at  me 
like  that  ?' 

'  That  letter,  I  am  sure,  is  from  Harding ;  it  is  a 
man's  handwriting.' 

She  had  been  expecting  that  letter  for  days. 

'  Oh  !  give  it  me,'  she  said  impulsively. 

1  There  it  is  ;   I  wouldn't  touch  it.     I  knew  you 


244  MUSLIN 

liked  that  man  ;  but  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you 
corresponding  with  him.  It  is  shameful  ;  it  isn't 
worthy  of  you.  You  might  have  left  such  things  to 
May  Gould.' 

'  Cecilia,  you  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  in  that 
way;  you  are  presuming  too  much  on  our  friend- 
ship.' 

1  Oh,  yes,  yes  ;  but  before  you  met  him  I  could 
not  presume  too  much  upon  our  friendship.' 

'  If  you  want  to  know  why  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Harding, 
I'll  tell  you.' 

'  It  was  you  who  wrote  to  him,  then  ?' 

'Yes,  I  wrote  to  him.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes  ;  I  see  it  all  now,'  cried  Cecilia, 
and  she  walked  wildly  to  and  fro,  her  eye  tinged 
with  a  strange  glare.  '  Yes,  I  see  it  all.  This  room, 
that  was  once  a  girl's  room,  is  now  Harding's  room. 
He  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  place.  I  was  conscious 
of  it  when  I  entered,  but  now  it  is  visible  to  me — 
that  manuscript,  that  writing-table,  that  letter.  Oh 
yes,  it  is  Harding,  all  is  Harding  !' 

'  Cecilia,  Cecilia,  think,  I  beg  of  you,  of  what  you 
are  saying.' 

But  when  Alice  approached  and  strove  to  raise 
her  from  the  pillow  upon  which  she  had  thrown  her- 
self, she  started  up  and  savagely  confronted  her. 

'  Don't  touch  me,  don't  touch  me !'  she  cried. 
'  I  cannot  bear  it.  What  are  you  to  me,  what  am  I 
to  you  ?  It  is  not  with  me  you  would  care  to  be,  but 
with  him.  It  is  not  my  kiss  of  friendship  that  would 
console  you,  but  his  kiss  of  passion  that  would  charm 
you.  .  .  .     Go  to  him,  and  leave  me  to  die.' 

1  Was  this  insanity  ?'     And  then,  forgetful  of  the 


MUSLIN  245 

abuse  that  was  being  showered  upon  her,  Alice 
said : 

'  Cecilia  dear,  listen  ;  I'll  forgive  the  language  you 
have  used  toward  me,  for  I  know  you  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying.  You  must  be  ill  .  .  .  you 
cannot  be  in  your  right  senses  to-day,  or  you  would 
not  speak  like  that.' 

'  You  would  soothe  me,  but  you  little  dream  of 
the  poison  you  are  dropping  on  my  wounds.  You 
never  understood,  you  are  too  far  removed  from  me 
in  thought  and  feeling  ever  to  understand — no,  your 
spirituality  is  only  a  delusion ;  you  are  no  better  at 
heart  than  May  Gould.  It  is  the  same  thing :  one 
seeks  a  husband,  another  gratifies  herself  with  a 
lover.  It  is  the  same  thing — where's  the  difference  ? 
It  is  animal  passion  all  the  same.  And  that  letter  is 
full  of  it — it  must  be — I  am  sure  it  is.' 

( You  are  very  insulting,  Cecilia.  Where  have  you 
thrown  my  letter  ?' 

The  letter  had  fallen  beneath  the  table.  Alice 
made  a  movement  towards  it,  but,  overcome  by  mad 
rage,  Cecilia  caught  it  up  and  threw  it  into  the  fire. 
Alice  rescued  her  letter,  and  then,  her  face  full  of 
stern  indignation,  she  said  : 

'  I  think,  Cecilia,  you  had  better  leave  my  room, 
and  before  you  come  to  see  me  again,  I  shall  expect 
to  receive  a  written  apology  for  the  outrageous  way 
you  have  behaved.' 

In  a  few  days  came  a  humble  and  penitent  letter ; 
Cecilia  returned,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  begged 
to  be  forgiven  ;  the  girls  resumed  their  friendship, 
but  both  were  conscious  that  it  was  neither  so  bright 
nor  so  communicative  as  in  the  olden  days. 


246  MUSLIN 


XXII 


'  Something  has  happened  to  my  learned  daughter,' 
said  Mr.  Barton,  and  he  continued  his  thumb-nail 
sketch  on  the  tablecloth.  f  What  is  it?'  he  added 
indolently. 

Alice  passed  the  cheque  and  the  memorandum 
across  the  table.  'Three  pounds  for  three  articles 
conti'ibuted  to  the during  the  month  of  April.' 

'You  don't  mean  to  say,  Alice,  you  got  three 
pounds  for  your  writing  ?'  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

'Yes,  mother,  I  have,  and  I  hope  to  make  ten 
pounds  next  month.  Mr.  Harding  says  he  can  get 
me  lots  of  work.' 

'  So  my  lady  then,  with  all  her  shy  ways,  knows 
how  to  make  use  of  a  man  as  well  as  any  of  us.' 

Mrs.  Barton  did  not  willingly  wound.  She  saw 
life  from  the  point  of  view  of  making  use  of  men, 
that  was  all  ;  and  when  Alice  walked  out  of  the 
room,  Mrs.  Barton  felt  sorry  for  what  she  had  said, 
and  she  would  have  gone  to  comfort  her  daughter 
if  Olive  had  not,  at  that  moment,  stood  in  imminent 
need  of  comfort. 

'  I  suppose/  she  said  pettishly,  '  the  letter  you 
received  this  morning  is  from  the  Marquis,  to  say  he 
won't  be  here  next  Tuesday  ?' 

It  was.  For  as  the  day  fixed  for  his  arrival  at 
Brookfield  approached,  he  would  write  to  apologize, 
and  to  beg  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  postpone 
his  visit  to  Monday  week  or  Wednesday  fortnight. 
Mrs.  Barton  replied  that  they  would  be  very  glad 
to  see  him  when  he  found  it  convenient  to  come 


MUSLIN  247 

and  see  them.  She  did  not  inquire  into  the  reason 
of  his  rudeness,  she  was  determined  to  fight  the 
battle  out  to  the  end,  and  she  did  not  dare  to  think 
that  he  was  being  prompted  by  that  beast  of  a  girl, 
Violet  Scully. 

'  He  writes  a  very  nice  letter  indeed.  He  says  he 
has  a  very  bad  cold,  and  doesn't  like  to  show  him- 
self at  Brookfield  with  a  red  nose,  but  that,  unless 
he  dies  in  the  meantime,  he  will  be  with  us  on  the 
twentieth  of  the  month,  and  will — if  we'll  have  him 
— stop  three  weeks  with  us.' 

'  I  knew  the  letter  was  a  put-oft.  I  don't  believe 
he  admires  me  at  all,  the  little  beast ;  and  I  know 
I  shall  never  be  a  marchioness.  You  made  me  treat 
poor  Edward  shamefully,  and  for  no  purpose,  after  all.' 

1  Now,  Olive,  you  mustn't  speak  like  that.  Go 
upstairs  and  ask  Barnes  if  she  has  heard  anything 
lately  ?' 

'  Oh,  I'm  sick  of  Barnes  ;  what  has  she  heard  ?' 

'  She  is  a  great  friend  of  Lady  Georgina's  maid, 
who  knows  the  Burkes  intimately,  particularly  Lady 
Emily's  maid,  and  Barnes  got  a  letter  from  her 
friend  the  other  day,  saying  that  Lady  Emily  was 
delighted  at  the  idea  of  her  brother  marrying  you, 
dear,  and  that  he  thinks  of  nobody  else,  speaks  of 
nobody  else.     Run  up  and  speak  to  her  about  it.' 

As  we  have  seen,  Mrs.  Barton  had  drugged  Olive's 
light  brain  with  visions  of  victories,  with  dancing, 
dresses,  admiration  ;  but  now,  in  the  tiring  void  of 
country  days,  memories  of  Edward's  love  and  devo- 
tion were  certain  to  arise.  He  made,  however,  no 
attempt  to  renew  his  courtship.  At  Gort,  within 
three  miles,  he  remained  silent,  immovable  as  one 


248  MUSLIN 

of  the  Clare  mountains.  Sometimes  his  brown- 
gold  moustache  and  square  shoulders  were  caught 
sight  of  as  he  rode  rapidly  along  the  roads.  He 
had  once  been  seen  sitting  with  Mrs.  Lawler  behind 
the  famous  cream-coloured  ponies ;  and  to  allude  to 
his  disgraceful  conduct  without  wounding  Olive's 
vanity  was  an  art  that  Mrs.  Barton  practised  daily  ; 
and  to  keep  the  girl  in  spirits  she  induced  Sir 
Charles,  who  it  was  reported  was  about  to  emigrate 
his  family  to  the  wilds  of  Maratoga,  to  come  and 
stay  with  them.  If  a  rumour  were  to  reach  the 
Marquis's  ears,  it  might  help  to  bring  him  to  the 
point.  In  any  case  Sir  Charles's  attentions  to  Olive 
would  keep  her  in  humour  until  the  great  day 
arrived. 

Well  convinced  that  this  was  her  last  throw, 
Mrs.  Barton  resolved  to  smear  the  hook  well  with 
the  three  famous  baits  she  was  accustomed  to  angle 
with.  They  were — dinners,  flattery,  and  dancing. 
Accordingly,  an  order  was  given  to  the  Dublin  fish- 
monger to  send  them  fish  daily  for  the  next  three 
weeks,  and  to  the  pastrycook  for  a  French  cook. 
The  store  of  flattery  kept  on  the  premises  being 
illimitable,  she  did  not  trouble  about  that,  but 
devoted  herself  to  the  solution  of  the  problem  of 
how  she  should  obtain  a  constant  and  unfailing 
supply  of  music.  Once  she  thought  of  sending  up 
to  Dublin  for  a  professional  pianist,  but  was  obliged 
to  abandon  the  idea  on  account  ol  the  impossibility 
of  devising  suitable  employment  for  him  during  the 
morning  hours.  A  tune  or  two  might  not  come  in 
amiss  after  lunch,  but  to  have  him  hanging  about 
the  shrubberies  all  the  morning  would  be  intoler- 


MUSLIN  249 

able.  She  might  ask  a  couple  of  the  Brennans  or 
the  Duffys  to  stay  with  them,  but  they  would  be  in 
the  way,  and  occupy  the  Marquis's  time,  and  go 
tell-taling  all  over  the  country  ;  no,  that  wouldn't 
do  either.  Alice's  playing  was  wretched.  It  was 
a  wonderful  thing  that  a  girl  like  her  would  not 
make  some  effort  to  amuse  men — would  not  do 
something.  Once  Olive  was  married,  she  (Mrs.  Bar- 
ton) would  try  to  patch  up  something  for  this  gawk 
of  a  girl — marry  her  to  Sir  Charles  ;  excellent  match 
it  would  be,  too — get  all  the  children  emigrated  first : 
and  if  he  would  not  have  her,  there  was  Sir  Richard. 
It  was  said  that  he  was  quite  reformed — had  given 
up  drink.  But  there  was  no  use  thinking  of  that  : 
for  the  present  she  would  have  to  put  up  with  the 
girl's  music,  which  was  wretched. 

Olive  fell  in  with  her  mother's  plans,  and  she 
angled  industriously  for  Lord  Kilcarney.  She  did 
not  fail  to  say  in  or  out  of  season,  '  II  n'y  a  personne 
comme  notre  cher  Marquis,'  and  as  the  turbot  and 
fruit,  that  had  arrived  by  the  afternoon  train  from 
Dublin,  were  discussed,  Milord  did  not  cease  to 
make  the  most  appropriate  remarks.  Referring  to 
the  bouquet  that  she  had  pinned  into  the  Marquis's 
buttonhole,  he  said  : 

1 II  y  a  des  amants  partout  ou  il  y  a  des  oiseaux  et  des 
roses.'  And  again  :  '  Les  regardes  des  amoureux  sunt 
la  lumiere  comme  le  baiser  est  la  vie  du  monde.' 

After  dinner  no  time  was  lost,  although  the 
Marquis  pleaded  fatigue,  in  settling  Alice  at  the 
piano,  and  dancing  began  in  sober  earnest.  After 
each  waltz  Olive  conducted  him  to  the  dining-room  ; 
she  helped  him  liberally  to  wine,  and  when  she  held 


250  MUSLIN 

a  match  to  his  cigarette  their  fingers  touched.  But 
to  find  occupation  for  the  long  morning  hours  of  her 
young  couple  was  a  grave  trouble  to  Mrs.  Barton. 
She  was  determined  to  make  every  moment  of  the 
little  Marquis's  stay  in  Galway  moments  of  sunshine  ; 
but  mental  no  more  than  atmospheric  sunshine  is  to 
be  had  by  the  willing,  and  the  poor  little  fellow 
seemed  to  pine  in  his  Galway  cage  like  a  moulting 
canary.  He  submitted  to  all  the  efforts  made  in  his 
behalf,  but  his  submission  was  that  of  a  victim.  After 
breakfast  he  always  attempted  to  escape,  and  if  he 
succeeded  in  eluding  Mrs.  Barton,  he  would  remain 
for  hours  hidden  in  the  laurels,  enwrapped  in  summer 
meditations,  the  nature  of  which  it  was  impossible 
even  to  conjecture.  In  the  afternoon  he  spoke  of 
the  burden  of  his  correspondence,  and  when  the 
inevitable  dancing  was  spoken  of,  he  often  excused 
himself  on  the  ground  of  having  a  long  letter  to 
finish.  If  it  were  impossible  for  her  to  learn  the 
contents  of  these  letters,  Mrs.  Barton  ardently  desired 
to  know  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  Daily  she 
volunteered  to  send  special  messengers  to  the  post 
on  his  account ;  the  footman,  the  coachman,  and 
pony-chaise,  were  in  turn  rejected  by  him. 

'  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Barton,  thank  you,  but  I  should 
like  to  avail  myself  of  the  chance  of  a  constitu- 
tional.' 

'La  sante  de  noire  petit  Marquis  avant  tout,'  she 
would  exclaim,  with  much  silvery  laughter  and  all 
the  habitual  movements  of  the  white  hands.  '  But 
what  do  you  say  :  I  am  sure  the  young  ladies  would 
like  a  walk,  too  ?' 

With  a  view  to  picturesque  effect  Mrs.  Barton's 


MUSLIN  251 

thoughts  had  long  been  centred  on  a  picnic.  They 
were  now  within  a  few  days  of  the  first  of  May,  and 
there  was  enough  sunshine  in  the  air  to  justify  an 
excursion  to  Kinvarra  Castle.  It  is  about  four  miles 
distant,  at  the  end  of  a  long  narrow  bay. 

Mrs.  Barton  applied  herself  diligently  to  the  task 
of  organization.  Having  heard  from  Dublin  of  the 
hoax  that  was  being  played  on  their  enemy,  the 
Ladies  Cullen  consented  to  join  the  party,  and  they 
brought  with  them  one  of  the  Honourable  Miss 
Gores.  The  DufFys  and  Brennans  numbered  their 
full  strength,  including  even  the  famous  Bertha,  who 
was  staying  with  her  sisters  on  a  visit.  The  Goulds 
excused  themselves  on  account  of  the  distance  and 
the  disturbed  state  of  the  country.  Mrs.  Barton 
found,  therefore,  much  difficulty  in  maintaining  the 
noted  characteristic  of  her  parties.  Sir  Richard  and 
Sir  Charles  had  agreed  to  come  ;  Mr.  Adair,  Mr. 
Ryan,  and  Mr.  Lynch  were  also  present.  They  drove 
up  on  outside  cars,  and  were  all  attended  by  a  body- 
guard of  policemen. 

And  very  soon  everybody  fell  to  babbling  of  the 
history  of  the  Castle,  which  nobody  knew  :  Ireland 
has  had  few  chroniclers.  Lord  Dungory  pointed 
out  that  in  the  seventeenth  century  people  lived  in 
Ireland  naked — speaking  Latin  habitually — without 
furniture  or  tapestries  or  paintings  or  baths.  The 
Castle  suggested  a  military  movement  to  Mr.  Barton. 

'  If  things  get  any  worse,  we  might  all  retire  into 
this  castle.  The  ladies  will  stand  on  the  battlements, 
and  I  will  undertake  to  hold  the  place  for  ever 
against  those  village  ruffians.' 

'  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  necessity  for 


252  MUSLIN 

that/  replied  Mr.  Adair  sententiously.  '  I  think  that 
these  last  terrible  outrages  have  awakened  the 
Government  to  a  sense  of  their  responsibility.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  immediate  steps  will  be 
taken  to  crush  this  infamous  conspiracy.' 

Lord  Dungory  interposed  with  a  neat  epigram, 
and  Mr.  Adair  fell  to  telling  how  he  would  crush 
the  Land  League  out  of  existence  if  the  Government 
would  place  him  in  supreme  power  for  the  space  of 
one  month. 

1  That  is  all  I  would  ask  :  one  month  to  restore 
this  island  to  peace  and  prosperity.  I  have  always 
been  a  Liberal,  but  I  confess  that  I  entirely  fail  to 
understand  the  action  the  Government  are  taking  in 
the  present  crisis. 

As  Lord  Dungory  was  about  to  reply  that  he  did 
not  believe  that  the  peasants  could  continue  to  resist 
the  Government  indefinitely,  the  police-sergeant  in 
charge  of  the  picnic-party  approached,  his  face  over- 
cast. 

c  We've  just  received  bad  news  from  Dublin,  my 
lord.  The  worst.  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish  and 
Mr.  Burke  were  murdered  this  evening  in  the 
Phoenix  Park.  It  is  unfortunately  true,  sir ;  I've 
the  telegram  with  me.'  And  he  handed  the  yellow 
envelope  to  Lord  Dungory,  who,  after  glancing  at  it, 
handed  it  on  to  Mr.  Adair. 

The  appearance  of  the  police  in  conversation  with 
Lord  Dungory  and  Mr.  Adair  was  a  sign  for  the 
assembling  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  and  it  was 
under  the  walls  of  old  Kinvarra  Castle  that  the 
picnic-party  heard  the  awful  news. 

Then,  in  turn,  each  ejaculated  a  few  words. 


MUSLIN  253 

Mrs.  Barton  said :  '  It  is  dreadful  to  think  there 
are  such  wicked  people  in  the  world.' 

Mr.  Adair  said :  '  There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that 
we  have  arrived  at  the  crisis  ;  Europe  will  ring  with 
the  echoes  of  the  crime.' 

Olive  said  :  '  I  think  they  ought  to  hang  Mr. 
Parnell ;  I  believe  it  was  he  who  drove  the  car.' 

Mr.  Barton  said  :  '  The  landlords  and  Land- 
Leaguers  will  have  to  do  what  I  say  ;  they  will  have 
to  fight  it  out.  Now,  at  their  head,  I  believe  by  a 
series  of  rapid  marches ' 

1  Arthur,  Ai'thur,  I  beg  of  you,'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Barton. 

'  We  shall  all  have  to  emigrate,'  Sir  Charles  mur- 
mured reflectively. 

'  The  law  is  in  abeyance,'  said  Mr.  Lynch. 

'  Precisely,'  replied  Milord  ;  '  and  as  I  once  said  to 
Lord  Granville,  "  Les  mceurs  sont  les  homines,  mats  la 
hi  est  la  raison  du  pays!' ' 

Mr.  Adair  looked  up ;  he  seemed  about  to  contest 
the  truth  of  this  aphorism,  but  he  relapsed  into  his 
consideration  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  political  integrity. 
The  conversation  had  fallen,  but  at  the  end  of  a  long 
silence  Mr.  Ryan  said  : 

'  Begorra,  I  am  very  glad  they  were  murthered.' 

All  drew  back  instinctively.  This  was  too  horrible, 
and  doubt  of  Mr.  Ryan's  sanity  was  expressed  on 
every  face. 

At  last  Mr.  Adair  said,  conscious  that  he  was  ex- 
pressing the  feelings  of  the  entire  company  :  '  What 
do  you  mean,  sir  ?  Have  you  gone  mad  ?  Do  you 
not  know  that  this  is  no  fitting  time  for  buffoonery  ?' 

'  Will  ye  hear  me  cousin  out  ?'  said  Mr.  Lynch. 


254  MUSLIN 

'Begorra,  I'm  glad  they  were  murthered,'  con- 
tinued Mr.  Ryan  ;  '  for  if  they  hadn't  been  we'd 
have  been — there's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  I 
know  the  counthry  well,  and  I  know  that  in  six 
months  more,  without  a  proper  Coercion  Act,  we'd 
have  been  burned  in  our  beds.' 

The  unanswerableness  of  Mr.  Ryan's  words,  and 
the  implacable  certainty  which  forced  itself  into 
every  heart,  that  he  spoke  but  the  truth,  did  not, 
however,  make  the  company  less  inclined  to  oppose 
the  utilitarian  view  he  took  of  the  tragedy. 

Unfinished  phrases  .  .  .  '  Disgraceful  .  .  .  '  Shock- 
ing .  .  .  '  Inconceivable  .  .  .  '  That  anyone  should 
say  such  a  thing '  .  .  .  were  passed  round,  and  a 
disposition  was  shown  to  boycott  Mr.  Ryan. 

Mr.  Adair  spoke  of  not  sitting  in  the  room  where 
such  opinions  were  expressed,  but  Milord  was  seen 
whispering  to  him,  '  We're  not  in  a  room,  Adair, 
we're  out  of  doors  ;'  and  Mrs.  Barton,  always  anxious 
to  calm  troubled  lives,  suggested  that  '  people  did 
not  mean  all  they  said.'  Mr.  Ryan,  however,  main- 
tained through  it  all  an  attitude  of  stolid  indifference, 
the  indifference  of  a  man  who  knows  that  all  must 
come  back  sooner  or  later  to  his  views. 

And  presently,  although  the  sting  remained,  the 
memory  of  the  wasp  that  had  stung  seemed  to  be 
lost.  Milord  and  Mr.  Adair  engaged  in  a  long 
and  learned  discussion  concerning  the  principles  of 
Liberalism,  in  the  course  of  which  many  allusions 
were  made  to  the  new  Coercion  Bill,  which,  it  was 
now  agreed,  Mr.  Gladstone  would,  in  a  few  days,  lay 
before  Parliament.  The  provisions  of  this  Bill  were 
debated.     Milord   spoke   of  an   Act   that  had  been 


MUSLIN  255 

in  force  consequent  on  the  Fenian  rising  in  '69. 
Mr.  Adair  was  of  opinion  that  the  importance  of  a 
new  Coercion  Act  could  not  be  over-estimated ; 
Mr.  Barton  declared  in  favour  of  a  military  expedi- 
tion— a  rapid  dash  into  the  heart  of  Connemara. 
But  the  conversation  languished,  and  in  the  ever- 
lengthening  silences  all  found  their  thoughts 
reverting  to  the  idea  brutally  expressed  by  Mr. 
Ryan  :  Yes,  they  were  glad ;  for  if  Lord  Frederick 
Cavendish  and  Mr.  Burke  had  not  been  assassinated, 
every  landowner  in  the  country  would  have  been 
murdered. 

There  was  no  dancing  that  evening ;  and  as  the 
night  advanced  the  danger  of  the  long  drive  home 
increased  in  intensity  in  the  minds  of  Messrs.  Lynch 
and  Ryan.  They  sat  on  either  side  of  Mr.  Adair, 
and  it  was  finally  arranged  that  they  should  join 
their  police-forces,  and  spend  the  night  at  his  place. 
Sir  Charles  was  sleeping  at  Brookfield  ;  Milord  had 
four  policemen  with  him  ;  and  as  all  would  have  to 
pass  his  gate,  he  did  not  anticipate  that  even  the 
Land  League  would  venture  to  attack  thirteen 
armed  men.  Mr.  Barton,  who  saw  the  picturesque 
in  everything,  declared,  when  he  came  back,  that 
they  looked  like  a  caravan  starting  for  a  pilgrimage 
across  the  desert.  After  a  few  further  remarks,  the 
ladies  rose  to  retire,  but  when  Mrs.  Barton  gave  her 
hand  to  Lord  Kilcarney,  he  said,  his  voice  trembling 
a  little  : 

c  I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton. I  shall  have  to  run  over  to  London  to  vote  in 
the  House  of  Lords.   .   .   .' 

Mrs.   Barton    led   the    poor   little    man   into   the 


256  MUSLIN 

farther  corner  of  the  room,  and  making  a  place  for 
him  by  her  side,  she  said  : 

'  Of  course  we  are  very  sorry  you  are  leaving — we 
should  like  you  to  stop  a  little  longer  with  us.  Is 
it  impossible  for  you  .  .  .  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  so,  Mrs.  Barton ;  it  is  very  kind  of 
you,  but ' 

'  It  is  a  great  pity,'  she  answered  ;  '  but  before  we 
part  I  should  like  to  know  if  you  have  come  to  any 
conclusion  about  what  I  spoke  to  you  of  in  Dublin. 
If  it  is  not  to  be,  I  should  like  to  know,  that  I  might 
tell  the  girl,  so  that  she  might  not  think  anything 
more  about ' 

'  What  am  I  to  say,  what  am  I  to  do  ?'  thought  the 
Marquis.  '  Oh  !  why  does  this  woman  worry  me  ? 
How  can  I  tell  her  that  I  wouldn't  marry  her 
daughter  for  tens  of  thousands  of  pounds  ?'  '  I  think, 
Mrs.  Barton — I  mean,  I  think  you  will  agree  with 
me  that  until  affairs  in  Ireland  grow  more  settled, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  anyone  to  enter  into  any 
engagements  whatever.  We  are  all  on  the  brink  of 
ruin.' 

'  But  twenty  thousand  pounds  would  settle  a  great 
deal.' 

The  little  Marquis  was  conscious  of  annihilation, 
and  he  sought  to  escape  Mrs.  Barton  as  he  might 
a  piece  of  falling  rock.  With  a  desperate  effort  he 
said  : 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Barton — yes,  I  agree  with  you,  twenty 
thousand  pounds  is  a  great  deal  of  money  ;  but  I 
think  we  had  better  wait  until  the  Lords  have 
passed  the  new  Coercion  Bill — say  nothing  more 
about  this — leave  it  an  open  question.' 


MUSLIN  257 

And  on  this  eminently  unsatisfactory  answer  the 
matter  ended  ;  even  Mrs.  Barton  saw  she  could  not, 
at  least  for  the  present,  continue  to  press  it.  Still 
she  did  not  give  up  hope.  '  Try  on  to  the  end  ;  we 
never  know  that  it  is  not  the  last  little  effort  that 
will  win  the  game/  was  the  aphorism  with  which  she 
consoled  her  daughter,  and  induced  her  to  write  to 
Lord  Kilcarney.  And  almost  daily  he  received  from 
her  flowers,  supposed  to  be  emblematical  of  the  feel- 
ing she  entertained  for  him  ;  and  for  these  Alice  was 
sometimes  ordered  to  compose  verses  and  suitable 
mottoes. 

XXIII 

But  Lord  Kilcarney's  replies  to  these  letters  seldom 
consisted  of  more  than  a  few  well- chosen  words,  and 
he  often  allowed  a  week,  and  sometimes  a  fortnight, 
to  elapse  before  answering  at  all.  Olive — too  vain 
and  silly  to  understand  the  indifference  with  which 
she  was  treated — whined  and  fretted  less  than  might 
have  been  expected.  She  spent  a  great  deal  of  her 
time  with  Barnes,  who  fed  her  with  scandal  and 
flattery.  But  a  storm  was  about  to  break,  and  in 
August  it  was  known,  without  any  possibility  of  a 
doubt,  that  the  Marquis  was  engaged  to  Violet 
Scully,  and  that  their  marriage  was  settled  for  the 
autumn. 

And  this  marriage,  and  the  passing  of  the  Bill  for 
the  Prevention  of  Crime,  were  the  two  interests 
present  in  the  mind  of  Irish  landlordism  during  the 
summer  of  '82.  Immediately  the  former  event  was 
publicly  announced,  every  girl  in  Dublin  ran  to  her 

R 


258  MUSLIN 

writing-desk  to  confirm  to  her  friends  and  relatives 
the  truth  of  the  news  which  for  the  last  two  months 
she  had  so  resolutely  anticipated.  The  famous 
Bertha,  the  terror  of  the  debutantes,  rushed  to 
Brookfield,  but  she  did  not  get  there  before  the 
Brennans,  and  the  result  was  a  meeting  of  these 
families  of  girls  in  Mrs.  Barton's  drawing-room. 
Gladys  was,  however,  the  person  chosen  by  God  and 
herself  to  speak  the  wonderful  words  : 

'  Of  course  you  have  heard  the  news,  Mrs.  Barton  ?' 

'  No,'  replied  Mrs.  Barton,  a  little  nervously ; 
'  what  is  it  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  what  is  it  ?'  exclaimed  Olive.  '  Anyone 
going  to  be  married  ?' 

'  Yes.     Can  you  guess  ?' 

1  No  ;  tell  me  quick  .  .  .  no,  do  tell  me.  Are  you 
going  to  be  married  ?' 

Had  Olive  been  suddenly  dowered  with  the  wit 
of  Congreve  she  could  not  have  contrived  an  answer 
that  would  have  shielded  her  better  from  the  dart 
that  Gladys  was  preparing  to  hurl.  The  girl  winced  ; 
and  divining  the  truth  in  a  moment  of  inspiration, 
Mrs.  Barton  said  : 

'  Ah !  I  know ;  Lord  Kilcarney  is  engaged  to 
Violet  Scully.' 

The  situation  was  almost  saved,  and  would  have 
been  had  Olive  not  been  present.  She  glanced  at 
her  mother  in  astonishment ;  and  Gladys,  fearing 
utter  defeat,  hurled  her  dart  recklessly. 

I  Yes,'  she  exclaimed,  '  and  their  marriage  is  fixed 
for  this  autumn.' 

I I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  .  .  You  only  say 
so  because  you  think  it  will  annoy  me.' 


MUSLIN  259 

1  My  dear  Olive,  how  can  it  annoy  you  ?  You 
know  very  well  you  refused  him/  said  Mrs.  Barton, 
risking  the  danger  of  contradiction.  '  Gladys  is  only 
telling  us  the  news.' 

'  News,  indeed  ;  a  pack  of  lies.  I  know  her  well  ; 
and  all  because — because  she  didn't  succeed  in  hook- 
ing the  man  she  was  after  in  the  Shelbourne  last 
year.  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  her  lies,  if  you  are  ; ' 
and  on  these  words  Olive  flaunted  passionately  out 
of  the  room. 

'  So  very  sorry,  really/  exclaimed  Zoe.  (  We  really 
didn't  know  .  .  .  indeed  we  didn't.  We  couldn't 
have  known  that — that  there  was  any  reason  why 
dear  Olive  wouldn't  like  to  hear  that  Lord  Kilcarney 
was  engaged  to  Violet.' 

1  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  assure  you  that  whatever 
question  there  may  once  have  been,  I  give  you  my 
word,  was  broken  off  a  long  time  ago  ;  they  did  not 
suit  each  other  at  all/  said  Mrs.  Barton.  Now  that 
she  was  relieved  of  the  presence  of  her  young,  the 
mother  fought  admirably.  But  in  a  few  minutes 
the  enemy  was  reinforced  by  the  arrival  of  the  Hon. 
Miss  Gores. 

( Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you/ 
said  Mrs.  Bai'ton,  the  moment  they  entered  the  room. 
'  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  all  is  definitely  settled 
between  the  little  Marquis  and  Violet.  We  were  all 
talking  of  it ;  I  am  so  glad  for  her  sake.  Of  course  it 
is  very  grand  to  be  a  marchioness,  but  I'm  afraid 
she'll  find  her  coronet  a  poor  substitute  for  her 
dinner.  You  know  what  a  state  the  property  is  in. 
She  has  married  a  beggar.  The  great  thing  after  all, 
nowadays,  is  money.' 


260  MUSLIN 

It  would  have  been  better  perhaps  not  to  have 
spoken  of  Lord  Kilcarney's  mortgages,  but  the 
Marquis's  money  embarrassments  were  the  weak 
point  in  Violet's  marriage,  but  it  would  not  be 
natural  (supposing  that  Olive  had  herself  refused 
Lord  Kilcarney)  for  her  not  to  speak  of  them.  So 
she  prattled  on  gaily  for  nearly  an  hour,  playing  her 
part  admirably,  extricating  herself  from  a  difficult 
position  and  casting  some  doubt — only  a  little,  it  is 
true,  but  a  little  was  a  gain  on  the  story  that  Olive 
had  been  rejected. 

As  soon  as  her  visitors  left  the  room,  and  she 
went  to  the  window  to  watch  the  carriages  drive 
away  and  to  consider  how  she  might  console  her 
daughter — persuade  her,  perhaps,  that  everything 
had  happened  for  the  best. 

'  Oh,  mamma,'  she  said,  rushing  into  the  room, 
1  this  is  terrible ;  what  shall  we  do — what  shall 
we  do  ?' 

'  What's  terrible,  my  beautiful  darling  ?' 

Olive  looked  through  her  languor  and  tears,  and 
she  answered  petulantly  : 

'  Oh,  you  know  very  well  I'm  disgraced ;  he's 
going  to  marry  Violet,  and  I  shall  not  be  a  mar- 
chioness after  all.' 

'  If  my  beautiful  darling  likes  she  can  be  a  duchess,' 
replied  Mrs.  Barton  with  a  silvery  laugh. 

'  I  don't  understand,  mamma.' 

'  I  mean  that  we  aren't  entirely  dependent  on  that 
wretched  little  Marquis  with  his  encumbered  prop- 
erty ;  if  he  were  fool  enough  to  let  himself  be 
entrapped  by  that  designing  little  beast,  Violet 
Scully,  so  much  the   woi-se  for  him  ;   we  shall  get 


MUSLIN  261 

someone  far  grander  than  he.  It  is  never  wise  for 
a  girl  to  settle  herself  off  the  first  season  she  comes 
out.' 

'  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  now,  but  you  made 
me  break  oft'  with  dear  Edward,  who  was  ever  so 
nice,  and  loved  me  dearly.' 

Mrs.  Barton  winced,  but  she  answered  almost 
immediately : 

'  My  dear,  we  shall  get  someone  a  great  deal 
grander  than  that  wretched  Marquis.  There  will  be 
a  whole  crowd  of  English  dukes  and  earls  at  the 
Castle  next  year  ;  men  who  haven't  a  mortgage  on 
their  property,  and  who  will  all  fight  for  the  hand  of 
my  beautiful  Olive.  Mr.  Harding,  Alice's  friend, 
will  put  your  portrait  into  one  of  the  Society  papers 
as  the  Gal  way  beauty,  and  then  next  year  you  may 
be  her  Grace.' 

1  And  how  will  they  do  my  portrait,  mamma  ?' 

» I  think  you  look  best,  darling,  with  your  hair 
done  up  on  the  top  of  your  head,  in  the  French 
fashion.' 

'  Oh  !  do  you  think  so  ?  You  don't  like  the  way 
I  have  it  done  in  now  ?'  said  the  girl ;  and,  laughing, 
she  ran  to  the  glass  to  admire  herself.  '  Barnes  said 
I  looked  sweet  this  morning ;'  and  five  minutes  after 
she  was  tossing  her  head  nervously,  declaring  she 
was  miserable,  and  often  she  burst  out  crying  for  no 
assignable  cause.  Mrs.  Barton  consoled  and  flattered 
gaily ;  but  the  sweet  placid  countenance  was  some- 
times a  little  troubled.  As  the  girls  left  the  break- 
fast-room one  morning  she  said,  as  if  asking  their 
advice : 

'  I  have  just  received  an  invitation  from  Dungory 


262  MUSLIN 

Castle  ;  they  are  giving  a  tennis-party,  and  they  want 
us  to  go  to  lunch.' 

1  Oh  !  mamma,  I  don't  want  to  go/  cried  Olive. 

'  And  why,  my  dear  ?' 

1  Oh  !  because  everybody  knows  about  the  Marquis, 
and  I  couldn't  bear  their  sneers  ;  those  Brennans  and 
the  Duffys  are  sure  to  be  there.' 

'  Bertha's  in  Dublin,'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  in  an 
intonation  of  voice  a  little  too  expressive  of  relief. 

'  Gladys  is  just  as  bad  ;  and  then  there's  that 
horrid  Zoe.     Oh  !   I  couldn't  bear  it.' 

'  It  will  look  as  if  we  were  avoiding  them  ;  they 
will  only  talk  the  more.  I  always  think  it  is  best  to 
put  a  bold  face  on  everthing.' 

'  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't.  I'm  broken-hearted,  that's 
what  I  am.      I  have  nothing  to  do  or  to  think  of.' 

There  could  be  little  doubt  that  the  Ladies  Cullen 
had  got  up  the  tennis-party  so  that  they  might  have 
an  opportunity  of  sneering  at  her,  but  Milord  would 
keep  them  in  check  (it  might  be  as  well  to  tell  him 
to  threaten  to  put  down  the  school  if  they  did  not 
keep  a  guard  on  their  tongues),  and  if  Olive  would 
only  put  a  bold  face  on  it  and  captivate  Sir  Charles, 
this  very  disagreeable  business  might  blow  over. 
Further  than  this  Mrs.  Barton's  thoughts  did  not 
travel,  but  they  were  clear  and  precise  thoughts, 
and  with  much  sublety  and  insinuative  force  she 
applied  herself  to  the  task  of  overcoming  her 
daughter's  weakness  and  strengthening  her  in  this 
overthrow  of  vanity  and  self-love.  But  to  the  tennis- 
party  they  must  go.  Milord,  too,  was  of  opinion  that 
they  could  not  absent  themselves,  and  he  had  doubt- 
less been  able  to  arrive  at  a  very  clear  understanding 


MUSLIN  263 

with  Lady  Sarah  and  Lady  Jane  concerning  the 
future  of  Protestantism  in  the  parish,  for  on  the  day 
of  the  tennis-party  no  allusion  was  made  to  Lord 
Kilcarney's  visit  to  Brookfield  ;  certain  references  to 
his  marriage  were,  of  course,  inevitable,  but  it  was 
only  necessary  to  question  Mr.  Adair  on  his  views 
concerning  the  new  Coercion  Act  to  secure  for  Mrs. 
Barton  an  almost  complete  immunity  from  feminine 
sarcasm. 

'  I  do  not  deny,'  said  Mr.  Adair,  '  that  the  Crimes 
Bill  will  restore  tranquillity,  but  I  confess  that  I  can 
regard  no  Government  as  satisfactory  that  can  only 
govern  by  the  sword.' 

These  sentiments  being  but  only  very  partially 
appreciated  by  the  rest  of  the  company,  the  conver- 
sation came  to  an  awkward  pause,  and  Lady  Jane 
said  as  she  left  the  room  : 

'  I  do  not  know  a  more  able  man  on  a  county 
board  than  Mr.  Adair.  He  took  honours  at  Trinity, 
and  if  he  hasn't  done  as  much  since  as  we  expected, 
it  is  because  he  is  too  honourable,  too  conscientious, 
to  ally  himself  to  any  particular  party.' 

'  That  was  always  the  way  with  Lord  Dungory,' 
suggested  Mrs.  Gould. 

Lady  Jane  bit  her  lip,  and  continued,  without 
taking  notice  of  the  interruption  : 

'  Now,  I  hope  Mr.  Adair  will  not  write  a  pamphlet, 
or  express  himself  too  openly  concerning  the  Crimes 
Act.  The  question  of  the  day  is  the  organization  of 
the  Land  Act,  and  I  hear  that  Mr.  Gladstone  says  it 
will  be  impossible  to  get  on  without  Mr.  Adair's 
assistance.' 

'Every  six  months,'  said  Mrs.  Gould,  'it  is  given 


264  MUSLIN 

out  that  Gladstone  cannot  go  on  without  him ;  but 
somehow  Gladstone  does  manage  to  get  on  without 
him,  and  then  we  never  hear  any  more  about  it.' 

Lady  Jane  looked  angry  ;  and  all  wondered  at 
Mrs.  Gould's  want  of  tact,  but  at  that  moment  the 
footman  announced  Messrs.  Ryan  and  Lynch,  and 
Alice  asked  if  she  might  go  up  to  see  Cecilia.  More 
visitors  arrived ;  the  Brennans,  the  Duffys,  the  five 
Honourable  Miss  Gores,  and  the  company  adjourned 
to  the  tennis  ground.  Mr.  Lynch  was  anxious  to 
have  May  for  a  partner,  but  she  refused  him  some- 
what pettishly,  declaring  at  the  same  time  that 
she  had  given  up  tennis,  and  would  never  touch 
a  racquet  again.  Her  continuous  silence  and  de- 
jected appearance  created  some  surprise,  and  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  passion  when  her  mother  said 
she  didn't  know  what  had  come  over  May  lately. 
Then  obeying  an  impulse,  May  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
leaving  the  tennis  players  she  walked  across  the 
pleasure  grounds.  Dungory  Castle  was  surrounded 
by  heavy  woods  and  overtopping  clumps  of  trees. 
As  the  house  was  neared,  these  were  filled  in  with 
high  laurel  hedges  and  masses  of  rhododendron,  and 
an  opening  in  the  branches  of  some  large  beech- 
trees  revealed  a  blue  and  beautiful  aspect  of  the 
Clare  mountains. 

e  I  wonder  what  May  is  angry  about  ?'  Cecilia  said 
to  Alice  as  they  watched  the  tennis  playing  from 
their  window ;  '  suppose  those  horrid  men  are  annoy- 
ing her.' 

'  I  never  saw  her  refuse  to  play  tennis  before,' 
Alice  replied  demurely.  And  ten  minutes  after, 
some  subtle  desire  of  which  she  was  not  very  con- 


MUSLIN  265 

scious  led  her  through  the  shrubberies  towards  the 
place  where  she  already  expected  to  find  May.  And 
dreaming  of  reconciliation,  of  a  renewal  of  friend- 
ship, Alice  walked  through  the  green  summer  of  the 
leaves,  listening  to  the  infinite  twittering  of  the  birds, 
and  startled  by  the  wood-pigeons  that  from  time  to 
time  rose  boisterously  out  of  the  high  branches.  On 
a  garden  bench,  leaning  forward,  her  hands  rested  on 
her  knees,  May  sat  swinging  her  parasol  from  side 
to  side,  playing  with  the  fallen  leaves.  When  she 
looked  up,  the  sunlight  fell  full  upon  her  face,  and 
Alice  saw  that  she  was  crying.  But  affecting  not  to 
see  the  tears,  she  said,  speaking  rapidly  : 

'  Oh,  May  dear,  1  have  been  looking  for  you.  The 
last  time  we ' 

But  interrupted  here  by  a  choking  sob,  she  found 
herself  forced  to  say  : 

'  My  dear  May,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  ?' 

'  Oh,  no,  no ;  only  leave  me ;  don't  question  me. 
I  don't  want  anyone's  help.' 

The  ungraciousness  of  the  words  was  lost  in  the 
accent  of  grief  with  which  they  were  spoken. 

'  I  assure  you  I  don't  wish  to  be  inquisitive,'  Alice 
replied  sorrowfully,  f  nor  do  I  come  to  annoy  you 
with  good  advice,  but  the  last  time  we  met  we  didn't 
part  good  friends.  ...  I  was  merely  anxious  to 
assure  you  that  I  bore  no  ill-feeling,  but,  of  course, 
if  you ' 

'  Oh  no,  no,'  cried  May ;  reaching  and  catching  at 
Alice's  arm,  she  pulled  her  down  into  the  seat  beside 
her ;  '  I  am  awfully  sorry  for  my  rudeness  to  you — 
to  you  who  are  so  good — so  good.     Oh,  Alice  dear, 


266  MUSLIN 

you  will  forgive  me,  will  you  not  ?'  and  sobbing  very 
helplessly,  she  threw  herself  into  her  friend's  arms. 

'  Oh,  of  course  I  forgive  you,'  ci'ied  Alice,  deeply 
affected.  '  I  had  no  right  to  lecture  you  in  the  way  I 
did  ;  but  I  meant  it  for  the  best,  indeed  I  did.' 

'  I  know  you  did,  but  I  lost  my  temper.  Ah,  it 
you  knew  how  sorely  I  was  tried  you  would  forgive 
me.' 

'  I  do  forgive  you,  May  dear  ;  but  tell  me,  cannot  I 
help  you  now  ?  You  know  that  you  can  confide  in  me, 
and  I  will  do  anything  in  my  power  to  help  you.' 

'  No  one  can  help  me  now,'  said  the  girl  sullenly. 

Alice  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  at  the  end  of  a 
long  silence  she  said  : 

•  Does  Fred  Scully  love  you  no  more  ?' 

'  I  do  not  know  whether  he  does  or  not ;  nor  does 
it  matter  much.  He's  not  in  Ireland.  He's  far  away 
by  this  time.' 

*  Where  is  he  ?' 

'  He's  gone  to  Australia.  He  wrote  to  me  about 
two  months  ago  to  say  that  all  had  been  decided  in 
a  few  hours,  and  that  he  was  to  sail  next  morning. 
He's  gone  out  with  some  racehorses,  and  expects 
to  win  a  lot  of  money.     He'll  be  back  again  in  a  year.' 

'A  year  isn't  long  to  wait;  you'll  see  him  when 
he  comes  back.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  see  him  again. 
Oh,  you  were  right,  Alice,  to  warn  me  against  him. 
I  was  foolish  not  to  listen  to  you,  but  it  was  too  late 
even  then.' 

Alice  trembled ;  she  had  already  guessed  the 
truth,  but  hoping  when  she  knew  all  hope  was  vain, 
she  said  : 


MUSLIN  267 

'  You  had  better  tell  me,  May  ;  you  know  I  am 
to  be  trusted.' 

c  Can't  you  guess  it  ?' 

The  conversation  fell,  and  the  girls  sat  staring 
into  the  depths  of  the  wood.  Involuntarily  their 
eyes  followed  a  small  bird  that  ran  up  branch  after 
branch  of  a  beech-tree,  pecking  as  it  went.  It 
seemed  like  a  toy  mouse,  so  quick  and  unvarying 
were  its  movements.  At  last  May  said,  and  very 
dolorously  : 

'  Alice,  I  thought  you  were  kinder  ;  haven't  you 
a  word  of  pity  ?  Why  tell  you,  why  ask  me  to  tell 
you  ?     Oh  !  what  a  fool  I  was  !' 

'  Oh  !  no,  no,  May,  you  did  right  to  tell  me.  I 
am  more  sorry  for  you  than  words  can  express,  and 
I  didn't  speak  because  I  was  trying  to  think  of  some 
way  of  helping  you.' 

'  Oh  !  there's  no — no  way  of  helping  me,  dear. 
There's  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  die.'  And  now 
giving  way  utterly,  the  girl  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  sobbed  until  it  seemed  that  she  would 
choke  in  thick  grief. 

'  Oh  !  May,  May  dear,  you  mustn't  cry  like  that : 
if  anyone  were  to  come  by,  what  would  they  think  ?' 

c  What  does  it  matter  ?  Everyone  will  know 
sooner  or  later — I  wish  I  were  dead — dead  and  out 
of  sight  for  ever  of  this  miserable  world.' 

'  No,  May,'  said  Alice,  thinking  instinctively  of 
the  child,  '  you  mustn't  die.  Your  trial  is  a  terrible 
one,  but  people  before  now  have  got  over  worse.  I 
am  trying  to  think  what  can  be  done.' 

Then  May  raised  her  weeping  face,  and  there  was 
a  light   of  hope   in  her  eyes.     She  clasped  Alice's 


268  MUSLIN 

hand.  Neither  spoke.  The  little  brown  bird  pur- 
sued his  way  up  and  down  the  branches  of  the 
beech  ;  beyond  it  lay  the  sky,  and  the  girls,  tense 
with  little  sufferings,  yearned  into  this  vision  of 
beautiful  peace. 

At  last  Alice  said :  '  Did  you  tell  Mr.  Scully  of 
the  trouble  ?     Does  he  know ' 

f  He  was  away,  and  I  didn't  like  to  write  it  to  him  ; 
his  departure  for  Australia  took  me  quite  by  surprise.' 

'  Have  you  told  your  mother  ?' 

'  Oh  no,  I'd  rather  die  than  tell  her  ;  I  couldn't 
tell  her.     You  know  what  she  is.' 

'  I  think  she  ought  to  be  told  ;  she  would  take 
you  abroad.' 

'  Oh  no,  Alice  dear  ;  it  would  never  do  to  tell 
mamma.  You  know  what  she  is,  you  know  how  she 
talks,  she  would  never  leave  off  abusing  the  Scullys ; 
and  then,  I  don't  know  how,  but  somehow  every- 
body would  get  to  know  about  it.  But  find  it  out 
they  will,  sooner  or  later  ;  it  is  only  a  question  ot 
time.' 

'  No,  no,  May,  they  shall  know  nothing  of  this — 
at  least,  not  if  I  can  help  it.' 

'  But  you  can't  help  it.' 

'  There  is  one  thing  quite  certain  ;  you  must  go 
away.     You  cannot  stop  in  Galway.' 

'  It  is  all  very  well  talking  like  that,  but  where 
can  I  go  to  ?  A  girl  cannot  move  a  yard  away  from 
home  without  people  wanting  to  know  where  she 
has  gone.' 

Alice's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  You  might  go  up  to  Dublin,'  she  said,  '  and  live 
in  lodgings.' 


MUSLIN  269 

'  And  what  excuse  should  I  give  to  mother  ?'  said 
May,  who  in  her  despair  had  not  courage  to  deny 
the  possibility  of  the  plan. 

'  You  needn't  tell  her  where  you  are/  replied 
Alice  ;  and  then  she  hesitated,  feeling  keenly  con- 
scious of  the  deception  she  was  practising.  But  her 
unswerving  common  sense  coming,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  to  her  aid,  she  said  :  '  You  might  say  that 
you  were  going  to  live  in  the  convent.  Go  to  the 
Mother  Superior,  tell  her  of  your  need,  beg  of  her, 
persuade  her  to  receive  and  forward  your  letters  ; 
and  in  that  way,  it  seems  to  me  that  no  one  need  be 
the  wiser  of  what  is  going  to  happen.' 

The  last  words  were  spoken  slowly,  as  if  with  a 
sense  of  shame  at  being  forced  to  speak  thus.  May 
raised  her  face,  now  aflame  with  hope  and  joy. 

'  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  to '     A  moment  after 

the  light  died  out  of  her  face,  and  she  said  : 

'  But  how  shall  I  live  ?  Who  will  support  me  ? 
I  cannot  ask  mother  for  money  without  awakening 
suspicion.' 

1 1  think,  May,  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  almost 
all  the  money  you  want,'  replied  Alice  in  a  hesitating 
and  slightly  embarrassed  manner. 

'  You,  Alice  ?' 

'  But  I  haven't  told  you  ;  I  have  been  writing  a 
good  deal  lately  for  newspapers,  and  have  made 
nearly  twenty  pounds.  That  will  be  all  you  will 
want  for  the  present,  and  I  shall  be  able,  I  hope,  to 
make  sufficient  to  keep  you  supplied.' 

'  I  don't  think  that  anyone  was  ever  as  good  as 
you,  Alice.     You  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself.' 

'  I  am  doing  only  what  anyone  else  would  do  if 


270  MUSLIN 

they  were  called  upon.  But  we  have  been  sitting 
here  a  long  time  now,  and  before  we  go  back  to  the 
tennis-ground  we  had  better  arrange  what  is  to  be 
done.     When  do  you  propose  leaving  ?' 

'  I  had  better  leave  at  once.  It  is  seven  months 
ago  now — no  one  suspects  as  yet.' 

'  Well,  then,  when  would  you  like  me  to  send  you 
the  money  ?     You  can  have  it  at  once  if  you  like.' 

'  Oh,  thanks,  dear  ;  mother  will  give  me  enough 
to  last  me  a  little  while,  and  I  will  write  to  you 
from  Dublin.  You  are  sure  no  one  sees  your  letters 
at  Brookfield  ?' 

'  Quite  sure  ;  there's  not  the  slightest  danger.' 

She  did  not  question  the  advice  she  had  given, 
and  she  felt  sure  that  the  Reverend  Mother,  if  a 
proper  appeal  were  made  to  her  common  sense, 
would  consent  to  conceal  the  girl's  fault.  Two 
months  would  not  be  long  passing,  but  the  expenses 
of  this  time  would  be  heavy,  and  she,  Alice,  would 
have  to  meet  them  all.  She  trembled  lest  she  might 
fail  to  do  so,  and  she  tried  to  reckon  them  up.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  get  rooms  under  a  pound 
a  week,  and  to  live,  no  matter  how  cheaply,  would 
cost  at  least  two  pounds  ;  three  pounds  a  week,  four 
threes  are  twelve !  The  twenty  pounds  would 
scarcely  carry  her  over  a  month,  she  would  not  be 
well  for  at  least  two  ;  and  then  there  was  the  doctor, 
the  nurse,  the  flannels  for  the  baby.  Alice  tried  to 
calculate,  thinking  plainly  and  honestly.  If  a  repul- 
sive detail  rose  suddenly  up  in  her  mind,  she  did  not 
shrink,  nor  was  she  surprised  to  find  herself  thinking 
of  such  things ;  she  did  so  as  a  matter  of  course, 
keeping   her  thoughts   fixed  on   the   one  object  of 


MUSLIN  271 

doing  her  duty  towards  her  friend.  And  how  to  do 
this  was  the  problem  that  presented  itself  unceasingly 
for  solution.  She  felt  that  somehow  she  would  have 
to  earn  twenty  pounds  within  the  next  month.  Out 
of  the  Lady's  Paper,  in  which  '  Notes  and  Sensations 
of  a  Plain  Girl  at  Dublin  Castle/  was  still  running, 
she  could  not  hope  to  make  more  than  thirty  shillings 
a  week  ;  a  magazine  had  lately  accepted  a  ten-page 
story  worth,  she  fancied,  about  five  pounds,  but  when 
they  would  print  it  and  pay  her  was  impossible  to 
say.  She  could  write  the  editor  an  imploring  letter, 
asking  him  to  advance  her  the  money.  But  even 
then  there  was  another  nine  pounds  to  make  up. 
And  to  do  this  seemed  to  her  an  impossibility.  She 
could  not  ask  her  father  or  mother ;  she  would  only 
do  so  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  She  would 
write  paragraphs,  articles,  short  stories,  and  would 
send  them  to  every  editor  in  London.  One  out  of 
three  might  turn  up  trumps. 

'  Gardner  Street, 

'Mountjoy  Square. 
•  Darling  Alice, 

'  I  have  been  in  Dublin  now  more  than  a 
week.  I  did  not  write  to  you  before  because  I 
wished  to  write  to  tell  you  that  I  had  done  all  you 
told  me  to  do.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  go  to 
the  convent.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  new  Rev. 
Mother  is  Sister  Mary  who  we  knew  so  well  at  St. 
Leonards !  She  has  been  transferred  to  the  branch 
convent  in  Dublin  ;  she  was  delighted  to  see  me,  but 
the  sight  of  her  dear  face  awoke  so  many  memories, 
so  many  old  associations,  that  I  burst  out  crying,  and 


272  MUSLIN 

it  seemed  to  me  impossible  that  I  should  ever  be  able 
to  find  courage  to  tell  her  the  truth.  None  will  ever 
know  what  it  cost  me  to  speak  the  words.  They 
came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden,  and  I  told  her  every- 
thing. I  thought  she  would  reproach  me  and  speak 
bitterly,  but  she  only  said,  "  My  poor  child,  I  am 
sorry  you  hadn't  strength  to  resist  temptation ;  your 
trial  is  a  dreadful  one."  She  was  very,  very  kind. 
Her  face  lighted  up  when  I  spoke  of  you,  and  she 
said  :  "  Sweet  girl ;  she  was  always  an  angel  ;  one  of 
these  days  she  will  come  back  to  us.  She  is  too  good 
for  the  world."  Then  I  insisted  that  it  was  your  idea 
that  I  should  seek  help  from  the  convent,  but  she 
said  that  it  was  my  duty  to  go  to  my  mother  and  tell 
her  the  whole  truth.  Oh,  my  darling  Alice,  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  a  terrible  time  I  went  through.  We 
were  talking  for  at  least  two  hours,  and  it  was  only 
with  immense  difficulty  that  I  at  last  succeeded  in 
making  her  understand  what  kind  of  person  poor 
mamma  is,  and  how  hopeless  it  would  be  to  expect 
her  to  keep  any  secret,  even  if  her  daughter's  honour 
was  in  question.  I  told  her  how  she  would  run  about, 
talking  in  her  mild  unmeaning  way  of  "poor  May 
and  that  shameful  Mr.  Scully  ;"  and,  at  last,  the  Rev. 
Mother,  as  you  prophesied  she  would,  saw  the  matter 
in  its  proper  light,  and  she  has  consented  to  receive 
all  my  letters,  and  if  mother  writes,  to  give  her  to 
understand  that  I  am  safe  within  the  convent  walls. 
It  is  very  good  of  her,  for  I  know  the  awful  risk  she 
is  wilfully  incurring  so  as  to  help  me  out  of  my 
trouble. 

'The  house  I  am  staying  in  is  nice  enough,  and  the 
landlady  seems  a  kind  woman.     The  name  I  go  by 


MUSLIN  273 

is  Mrs.  Brandon  (you  will  not  forget  to  direct  your 
letters  so),  and  I  said  that  my  husband  was  an  officer, 
and  had  gone  out  to  join  his  regiment  in  India.  I 
have  a  comfortable  bedroom  on  the  third  floor.  There 
are  two  windows,  and  they  look  out  on  the  street. 
The  time  seems  as  it"  it  would  never  pass ;  the  twelve 
hours  of  the  day  seem  like  twelve  centuries.  I  have 
not  even  a  book  to  read,  and  I  never  go  out  for  fear 
of  being  seen.  In  the  evening  I  put  on  a  thick  veil 
and  go  for  a  walk  in  the  back  streets.  But  I  cannot 
go  out  before  nine ;  it  is  not  dark  till  then,  and  I 
cannot  stop  out  later  than  ten  on  account  of  the  men 
who  speak  to  you.  My  coloured  hair  makes  me  look 
fast,  and  I  am  so  afraid  of  meeting  someone  I  know, 
that  this  short  hour  is  as  full  of  misery  as  those  that 
preceded  it.  Every  passer-by  seems  to  know  me,  to 
recognize  me,  and  I  cannot  help  imagining  that  he  or 
she  will  be  telling  my  unfortunate  story  half  an  hour 
after  in  the  pitiless  drawing-rooms  of  Merrion  Square. 
Oh,  Alice  darling,  you  are  the  only  friend  I  have  in 
the  world.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  I  believe  I  should 
drown  myself  in  the  Liffey.  No  girl  was  ever  so 
miserable  as  I.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  feel,  and 
you  cannot  imagine  how  forlorn  it  all  is  ;  and  I  am 
so  ill.  I  am  always  hungry,  and  always  sick,  and 
always  longing.  Oh,  these  longings  ;  you  may  think 
they  are  nothing,  but  they  are  dreadful.  You  remem- 
ber how  active  I  used  to  be,  how  I  used  to  run  about 
the  tennis-court ;  now  I  can  scarcely  crawl.  And 
the  strange  sickening  fancies  :  I  see  things  in  the 
shops  that  tempt  me,  sometimes  it  is  a  dry  biscuit, 
sometimes  a  basket  of  strawberries  ;  but  whatever  it 
is,  I  stand  and  look  at  it,  long  for  it,  until  weary  of 


274  MUSLIN 

longing  and  standing  with  a  sort  of  weight  weighing 
me  down,  and  my  stays  all  rucking  up  to  my  neck,  I 
crawl  home.  There  I  am  all  alone  ;  and  I  sit  in  the 
dai'k,  on  a  wretched  hard  chair  by  the  window  ;  and 
I  cry ;  and  I  watch  the  summer  night  and  all  the 
golden  stars,  and  I  cannot  say  what  I  think  of  during 
all  these  long  and  lonely  hours  ;  I  only  know  that  I 
cannot  find  energy  to  go  to  bed.  And  I  never  sleep 
a  whole  night  through ;  the  cramp  comes  on  so 
terribly  that  I  jump  up  screaming.  Oh,  Alice,  how 
I  hate  him  !  When  I  think  of  it  all  I  see  how  selfish 
men  are  ;  they  never  think  of  us — they  only  think  of 
themselves.  You  would  scarcely  know  me  if  you  saw 
me  now  ;  all  my  complexion — you  know  what  a  pretty 
complexion  it  was — is  all  red  and  mottled.  When  you 
saw  me  a  fortnight  ago  I  was  all  right  :  it  is  extra- 
ordinary what  a  change  has  come  about.  I  think  it 
was  the  journey  and  the  excitement ;  there  would  be 
no  concealing  the  truth  now.  It  is  lucky  I  left  Gal- 
way  when  I  did. 

'  Mother  gave  me  five  pounds  on  leaving  home. 
My  ticket  cost  nearly  thirty  shillings,  a  pound  went 
in  cabs  and  hotel  expenses,  and  my  breakfasts  brought 
my  bill  up  yesterday  to  two  pounds — I  cannot  think 
how,  for  I  only  pay  sixteen  shillings  for  my  room 
— and  when  it  was  paid  I  had  only  a  few  shillings 
left.  Will  you,  therefore,  send  the  money  you  prom- 
ised, if  possible,  by  return  of  post  ? 

'  Always  affectionately  yours, 

'  May  Gould.' 

The  tears  started  to  Alice's  eyes  as  she  read  the 
letter.      She  did  not  consider  if  May  might   have 


MUSLIN  275 

spared  her  the  physical  details  with  which  her  letter 
abounded  ;  she  did  not  stay  to  think  of  the  cause,  of 
the  result ;  for  the  moment  she  was  numb  to  ideas  and 
sensations  that  were  not  those  of  humble  human  pity 
for  bumble  human  suffering  :  like  the  waters  of  a  new 
baptism,  pity  made  her  pure  and  whole,  and  the  false 
shame  of  an  ancient  world  fell  from  her.  Leaning  her 
head  on  her  strong,  well-shaped  hand,  she  set  to 
arranging  her  little  plans  for  her  friend's  help — plans 
that  were  charming  for  their  simplicity,  their  sweet 
homeliness.  The  letter  she  had  just  read  had  come  by 
the  afternoon  post,  and  if  she  were  to  send  May  the 
money  she  wrote  for  that  evening,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  go  into  Gort  to  register  the  letter.  Gort  was 
two  miles  away  ;  and  if  she  asked  for  the  carriage  her 
mother  might  propose  that  the  letters  should  be 
sent  in  by  a  special  messenger.  This  of  course 
was  impossible,  and  Alice,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  found  herself  obliged  to  tell  a  deliberate  lie.  For 
a  moment  her  conscience  stood  at  bay,  but  she  ac- 
cepted the  inevitable  and  told  her  mother  that  she 
had  some  MSS.  to  register,  and  did  not  care  to 
entrust  them  to  other  hands.  It  was  a  consolation 
to  know  that  eighteen  pounds  were  safely  despatched, 
but  she  was  bitterly  unhappy,  and  the  fear  that  money 
might  be  wanting  in  the  last  and  most  terrible  hours 
bound  her  to  her  desk  as  with  a  chain ;  and  when  her 
tired  and  exhausted  brain  ceased  to  formulate  phrases, 
the  picture  of  the  lonely  room,  the  night  walks,  and 
the  suffering  of  the  jaded  girl,  stared  her  in  the  face 
with  a  terrible  distinctness.  Her  only  moments  of 
gladness  were  when  the  post  brought  a  cheque  from 
London.     Sometimes  they  were  for  a  pound,  some- 


276  MUSLIN 

times  for  fifteen  shillings.  Once  she  received  five 
pounds  ten — it  was  for  her  story.  On  the  10th  of 
September  she  received  the  following  letter  : 

'Darling  Alice, 

'  Thanks  a  thousand  times  for  your  last 
letter,  and  the  money  enclosed.  It  came  in  the 
nick  of  time,  for  I  was  run  almost  to  my  last  penny. 
I  did  not  write  before,  because  I  didn't  feel  in  the 
humour  to  do  anything.  Thank  goodness!  I'm  not 
sick  any  more,  though  I  don't  know  that  it  isn't 
counterbalanced  by  the  dreadful  faintness  and  the 
constant  movement.  Isn't  it  awful  to  sit  here  day 
after  day,  watching  myself,  and  knowing  the  only 
relief  I  shall  get  will  be  after  such  terrible  pain  ? 
I  woke  up  last  night  crying  with  the  terror  of  it. 
Cervassi  says  there  are  cases  on  record  of  painless 
confinements,  and  in  my  best  moods  I  think  mine  is 
to  be  one  of  them.  I  know  it  is  wrong  to  write  all 
these  things  to  a  good  girl  like  you,  but  I  think 
talking  about  it  is  part  of  the  complaint,  and  poor 
sinner  me  has  no  one  to  talk  to.  Do  you  remember 
my  old  black  cashmere  ?  I've  been  altering  it  till 
there's  hardly  a  bit  of  the  original  body  left ;  but 
now  the  skirt  is  adding  to  my  troubles  by  getting 
shorter  and  shorter  in  front.  It  is  now  quite  six 
inches  off"  the  ground,  and  instead  of  fastening  it 
I  have  to  pin  the  placket-hole,  and  then  it  falls 
nearly  right.  .  .  .  Only  three  weeks  longer,  and 
then  .  .  .  But  there,  I  won't  look  forward,  because 
I  know  I  am  going  to  die,  and  all  the  accounting 
for  it,  and  everything  else,  will  be  on  your  shoul- 
ders.    Good-bye,  dear ;  I  shan't  write  again,  at  least 


MUSLIN  277 

not  till  afterwards.  And  if  there  is  an  afterward,  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  thank  you  properly  ;  but  still  I 
think  it  will  be  a  weight  off  you.  Is  it  so,  dear  ? 
Do  you  wish  I  were  dead  ?  I  know  you  don't.  It 
was  unkind  to  write  that  last  line ;  I  will  scratch  it 
out.  You  will  not  be  angry,  dear.  I  am  too 
wretched  to  know  what  I  am  writing,  and  I  want 
to  lie  down. 

'  Always  affectionately  yours, 

'  May  Gould.' 

Outside  the  air  was  limpid  with  sunlight,  and  the 
newly  mown  meadow  was  golden  in  the  light  of 
evening.  The  autumn-coloured  foliage  of  the  chest- 
nuts lay  mysteriously  rich  and  still,  harmonizing 
in  measured  tones  with  the  ruddy  tints  of  the  dim 
September  sunset.  The  country  dozed  as  if  satiated 
with  summer  love.  Heavy  scents  were  abroad — the 
pungent  odours  of  the  aftermath,  A  high  baritone 
voice  broke  the  languid  silence,  and,  in  embroidered 
smoking-jacket  and  cap,  Mr.  Barton  twanged  his 
guitar.  Milord  had  been  thrown  down  amid  the 
hay  ;  and  Mrs.  Barton  and  Olive  were  showering  it 
upon  him.    The  old  gentleman's  legs  were  in  the  air. 

Crushing  the  letter,  Alice's  hands  fell  on  the 
table ;  she  burst  into  teai-s.  But  work  was  more 
vital  than  tears ;  and,  taking  up  her  pen,  she  con- 
tinued her  story — penny  journal  fiction  of  true  love 
and  unending  happiness  in  the  end.  A  month  later 
she  received  this  note  : 

'  Dearest, 

'  Just  a  line  in  pencil — I  mustn't  sit  up — to 
tell  you  it  is  all  over,  and  all  I  said  was  "  Thank 


278  MUSLIN 

God,  thank  God !"  over  and  over  again,  as  each  pain 
went.  It  is  such  a  relief;  but  I  mustn't  write  much. 
It  is  such  a  funny  screwed-up-looking  baby,  and 
I  don't  feel  any  of  those  maternal  sentiments  that 
3rou  read  about — at  least  not  yet.  And  it  always 
cries  just  when  I  am  longing  to  go  to  sleep.  Thank 
you  again  and  again  for  all  you  have  done  for  me 
and  been  to  me.     I  feel  awfully  weak. 

'  Always  affectionately  yours, 

'  May  Gould.' 


XXIV 

Then  Alice  heard  that  the  baby  was  dead,  and  that 
a  little  money  would  be  required  to  bury  it.  Another 
effort  was  made,  the  money  was  sent ;  and  the  calm 
of  the  succeeding  weeks  was  only  disturbed  by  an 
uneasy  desire  to  see  May  back  in  Galway,  and  hear 
her  say  that  her  terrible  secret  was  over  and  done 
with  for  ever.  One  day  she  was  startled  by  a  quick 
trampling  of  feet  in  the  corridor,  and  May  rushed 
into  the  room.  She  threw  herself  into  Alice's  arms 
and  kissed  her  with  effusion,  with  tears.  The  girls 
looked  at  each  other  long  and  nervously.  One  was 
pale  and  over-worn,  her  spare  figure  was  buttoned 
into  a  faded  dress,  and  her  hair  was  rolled  into  a 
plain  knot.  The  other  was  superb  with  health,  and 
her  face  was  full  of  rose-bloom.  She  was  hand- 
somely dressed  in  green  velvet,  and  her  copper  hair 
flamed  and  flashed  beneath  a  small  bonnet  with 
mauve  strings. 

'  Oh,  Alice,  how  tired  and  pale  you  look  !     You 
have  been  working  too  hard,  and  all  for  me  !     How 


MUSLIN  279 

can  I  thank  )rou  ?  I  shall  never  be  able  to  thank 
you — I  cannot  find  words  to  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am  — but  I  am  grateful,  Alice,  indeed  I  am.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  are,  dear.  I  did  my  best  for  you, 
it  is  true  ;  and  thank  heaven  I  succeeded,  and  no 
one  knows — I  do  not  think  that  anyone  even  sus- 
pects.' 

'  No,  not  a  soul.  We  managed  it  very  well,  didn't 
we  ?  And  the  Reverend  Mother  behaved  splendidly 
— she  just  took  the  view  that  you  said  she  would. 
She  saw  that  no  good  would  come  of  telling  mamma 
about  me  when  I  made  her  understand  that  if  a 
word  were  said  my  misfortune  would  be  belled  all 
over  the  country  in  double-quick  time.  But,  Alice 
dear,  I  had  a  terrible  time  of  it,  two  months  waiting 
in  that  little  lodging,  afraid  to  go  out  for  fear  some- 
one would  recognize  me ;  it  was  awful.  And  often 
I  hadn't  enough  to  eat,  for  when  you  are  in  that 
state  you  can't  eat  everything,  and  I  was  afraid 
to  spend  any  money.  You  did  your  best  to  keep 
me  supplied,  dear,  good  guardian  angel  that  you 
are.'  Then  the  impulsive  girl  flung  herself  on 
Alice's  shoulders,  and  kissed  her.  '  But  there  were 
times  when  I  was  hard  up — oh,  much  more  hard  up 
than  you  thought  I  was,  for  I  didn't  tell  you  every- 
thing ;  if  I  had,  you  would  have  worried  yourself 
into  your  grave.  Oh,  I  had  a  frightful  time  of  it ! 
If  one  is  married  one  is  petted  and  consoled  and 
encouraged ;  but  alone  in  a  lodging — oh,  it  was 
frightful.' 

'  And  what  about  the  poor  baby  ?'  said  Alice. 

'  The  poor  little  thing  died,  as  I  wrote  you,  about 
ten  days  after  it  was  born.     I  nursed  it,  and  I  was 


280  MUSLIN 

sorry  for  it.  I  really  was  ;  but  of  course  .  .  .  well, 
it  seems  a  hard  thing  to  say,  but  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  have  done  with  it  if  it  had  lived.  Life 
isn't  so  happy,  is  it,  even  under  the  best  of  circum- 
stances ?' 

The  conversation  came  to  a  sudden  close.  At 
last  the  nervous  silence  that  intervened  was  broken 
by  May  : 

1  We  were  speaking  about  money.  I  will  repay 
you  all  I  owe  you  some  day,  Alice  dear.  I  will  save 
up  all  the  money  I  can  get  out  of  mother.  She  is 
such  a  dear  old  thing,  but  I  cannot  understand  her. 
Not  a  penny  did  she  send  me  for  the  first  six  weeks, 
and  then  she  sent  me  £-25 ;  and  it  was  lucky 
she  did,  for  the  doctor's  bill  was  something  tremen- 
dous. And  I  bought  this  dress  and  bonnet  with 
what  was  left  ...  I  ought  to  have  repaid  you  first 
thing,  but  I  forgot  it  until  I  had  ordered  the  dress.' 

'  I  assure  you  it  does  not  matter,  May  ;  I  shall 
never  take  the  money  from  you.  If  I  did,  it  would 
take  away  all  the  pleasure  I  have  had  in  serving 
you.' 

'  Oh,  but  I  will  insist,  Alice  dear ;  I  could  not 
think  of  such  a  thing.  But  there's  no  use  in  dis- 
cussing that  point  until  I  get  the  money.  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  my  bonnet  ?' 

'  I  think  it  very  nice  indeed,  and  I  never  saw  you 
looking  better.' 

And  thus  ended  May  Gould's  Dublin  adventure. 
It  was  scarcely  spoken  of  again,  and  when  they  met 
at  a  ball  given  by  the  officers  stationed  in  Galway, 
Alice  was  astonished  to  find  that  she  experienced  no 
antipathy  whatever  towards  this  rich-blooded  young 


MUSLIN  281 

person.  '  My  dear  guardian  angel,  come  and  sit 
with  me  in  this  corner ;  I'd  sooner  talk  to  you 
than  anyone — we  won't  go  down  yet  a  while — we'll 
make  the  men  wait ;'  and  when  she  put  her  arms 
round  Alice's  waist  and  told  her  the  last  news  of 
Violet  and  her  Marquis,  Alice  abandoned  herself  to 
the  caress  and  heard  that  thirty  years  ago  the  late 
Marquis  had  entered  a  grocer' s  shop  in  Galway  to 
buy  a  pound  of  tea  for  an  importuning  beggar : 
'  And  what  do  you  think,  my  dear  ? — It  was  Mrs. 
Scully  who  served  it  out  to  him ;  and  do  you  know 
what  they  are  saying  ? — that  it  is  all  your  fault  that 
Olive  did  not  marry  Kilcarney.' 

<  My  fault  ?' 

'  Your  fault,  because  you  gave  the  part  of  the 
beggar-maid  to  Violet,  and  if  Olive  had  played  the 
beggar-maid  and  hadn't  married  Kilcarney,  the  fault 
would  have  been  laid  at  your  door  just  the  same.' 

The  pale  cheeks  of  Lord  Rosshill's  seven  daughters 
waxed  a  hectic  red ;  the  Ladies  Cullen  grew  more 
angular,  and  smiled  and  cawed  more  cruelly ;  Mrs. 
Barton,  the  Brennans,  and  Duffys  cackled  more 
warmly  and  continuously ;  and  Bertha,  the  terror  of 
the  debutantes,  beat  the  big  drum  more  furiously  than 
ever.  The  postscripts  to  her  letters  were  particularly 
terrible :  '  And  to  think  that  the  grocer's  daughter 
should  come  in  for  all  this  honour.  It  is  she  who 
will  turn  up  her  nose  at  us  at  the  Castle  next  year.' 
'  Ah,  had  I  known  what  was  going  to  happen  it  is  I 
who  would  have  pulled  the  fine  feathers  out  of  her.' 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  the  agony  was  pro- 
tracted, until  every  heart  grew  weary  of  the  strain 
put  upon  it  and  sighed  for  relief.     But  it  was  im- 


282  MUSLIN 

possible  to  leave  off  thinking  and  talking ;  and  the 
various  accounts  of  orange-blossoms  and  the  brides- 
maids that  in  an  incessant  postal  stream  were  poured 
during  the  month  of  January  into  Galway  seemed  to 
provoke  rather  than  abate  the  marriage  fever.  The 
subject  was  inexhaustible,  and  little  else  was  spoken 
of  until  it  was  time  to  pack  up  trunks  and  prepare 
for  the  Castle  season.  The  bride,  it  was  stated, 
would  be  present  at  the  second  Drawing-Room  in 
March. 

Nevertheless  Alice  noticed  that  the  gladness  of 
last  year  was  gone  out  of  their  hearts ;  none  ex- 
pected much,  and  all  remembered  a  little  of  the 
disappointments  they  had  suffered.  A  little  of  the 
book  had  been  read ;  the  lines  of  white  girls  stand- 
ing about  the  pillars  in  Patrick's  Hall,  the  empty 
waltz  tunes  and  the  long  hours  passed  with  their 
chaperons  were  terrible  souvenirs  to  pause  upon. 
Still  they  must  fight  on  to  the  last ;  there  is  no 
going  back — there  is  nothing  for  them  to  go  back 
to.  There  is  no  hope  in  life  for  them  but  the  vague 
hope  of  a  husband.  So  they  keep  on  to  the  last, 
becoming  gradually  more  spiteful  and  puerile,  their 
ideas  of  life  and  things  growing  gradually  narrower, 
until,  in  their  thirty-fifth  or  fortieth  year,  they  fall 
into  the  autumn  heaps,  to  lie  there  forgotten,  or 
to  be  blown  hither  or  thither  by  every  wind  that 
blows. 

Two  of  Lord  Rosshill's  daughters  had  determined 
to  try  their  luck  again,  and  a  third  was  undecided ; 
the  Ladies  Cullen  said  that  they  had  their  school  to 
attend  to  and  could  not  leave  Galway  ;  poverty  com- 
pelled the  Brennans  and  Duffys  to  remain  at  home. 


MUSLIN  283 

Alice  would  willingly  have  done  the  same,  but, 
tempted  by  the  thin  chance  that  she  might  meet 
with  Harding,  she  yielded  to  her  mother's  persua- 
sions. Harding  did  not  return  to  Dublin,  and  her 
second  season  was  more  barren  of  incident  than  the 
first.  The  same  absence  of  conviction,  the  same 
noisy  gossiping  and  inability  to  see  over  the  horizon 
of  Merrion  Square,  the  same  servile  adoration  of 
officialism,  the  same  meanness  committed  to  secure 
an  invitation  to  the  Castle,  the  same  sing-song  waltz 
tunes,  the  same  miserable,  mocking,  melancholy, 
muslin  hours  were  endured  by  the  same  white 
martyrs. 

And  if  the  Castle  remained  unchanged,  Mount 
Street  lost  nothing  of  its  original  aspect.  Experi- 
ence had  apparently  taught  Mrs.  Barton  nothing  ; 
she  knew  but  one  set  of  tricks — if  they  failed  she 
repeated  them  :  she  was  guided  by  the  indubitable- 
ness  of  instinct  rather  than  by  the  more  wandering 
light  that  is  reason.  Mr.  Barton,  who  it  was  feared 
might  talk  of  painting,  and  so  distract  the  attention 
from  more  serious  matters,  was  left  in  Galway,  and 
amid  eight  or  nine  men  collected  here,  there,  and 
everywhere  out  of  the  hotels  and  barrack-rooms,  the 
three  ladies  sat  down  to  dinner. 

Mrs.  Barton,  who  could  have  talked  to  twenty 
men,  and  have  kept  them  amused,  was  severely 
handicapped  by  the  presence  of  her  daughters. 
Olive,  at  the  best  of  times,  could  do  little  more  than 
laugh  ;  and  as  Alice  never  had  anything  to  say  to  the 
people  she  met  at  her  mother's  house,  the  silences 
that  hung  over  the  Mount  Street  dinner-table  were 
funereal  in  intensity  and  length.     From  time  to  time 


284  MUSLIN 

questions   were   asked   relating   to   the  Castle,  the 
weather,  and  the  theatre. 

Therefore,  beyond  the  fact  that  neither  Lord  Kil- 
carney  nor  Mr.  Harding  was  present,  the  girls  passed 
their  second  season  in  the  same  manner  as  their  first. 
Les  deux  pieces  de  resistance  at  Mount  Street  were  a 
dissipated  young  English  loi-d  and  a  gouty  old  Irish 
distiller,  and  Mrs.  Barton  was  making  every  effort  to 
secure  one  of  these.  A  pianist  was  ordered  to  attend 
regularly  at  four  o'clock.  And  now  if  Alice  was 
relieved  of  the  duty  of  spelling  through  the  doleful 
strains  of  c  Dream  Faces,'  she  was  forced  to  go  round 
and  round  with  the  distiller  until  an  extra  glass  of 
port  forced  the  old  gentleman  to  beg  mercy  of  Mrs. 
Barton.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  young 
lord  used  to  enter  the  Kildare  Street  Club  weary. 
But  not  much  way  was  made  with  either,  and  when 
one  returned  to  London  and  the  other  to  a  sick-bed, 
Olive  abandoned  herself  to  a  series  of  flirtations.  At 
the  Castle  she  danced  with  all  who  asked  her,  and  she 
sat  out  dances  in  the  darkest  corners  of  the  most  dis- 
tant rooms  with  every  officer  stationed  in  Dublin. 
Mrs.  Barton  never  refused  an  invitation  to  any  dance, 
no  matter  how  low,  and  in  all  the  obscure  '  afternoons ' 
in  Mount  Street  and  Pembroke  Street  Olive's  blonde 
cameo-like  face  was  seen  laughing  with  every  official 
of  Cork  Hill  and  the  gig-men  of  Kildare  Street. 

In  May  the  Bartons  went  abroad,  and  Olive  flirted 
with  foreign  titles — French  Counts,  Spanish  Dukes, 
Russian  Princes,  Swedish  noblemen  of  all  kinds,  and 
a  goodly  number  of  English  refugees  with  irreproach- 
able neckties  and  a  taste  for  baccarat.  In  the  balmy 
gardens  of  Ostend  and  Boulogne,  jubilant  with  June 


MUSLIN  285 

and  the  overture  of  Masaniello,  Milord  and  Mrs. 
Barton  walked  in  front,  talking  and  laughing  grace- 
fully. Olive  chose  him  who  flattered  her  the  most 
outrageously ;  and  Alice  strove  hard  to  talk  to  the 
least  objectionable  of  the  men  she  was  brought  in 
contact  with.  Amid  these  specious  talkers  there 
were  a  few  who  reminded  her  of  Mr.  Harding,  and 
she  hoped  later  on  to  be  able  to  turn  her  present 
experiences  to  account.  There  was,  of  course,  much 
dining  at  cafes  and  dining  at  the  casinos,  and  evening 
walks  along  the  dark  shore.  Alice  often  feared  for 
her  sister,  but  the  girl's  vanity  and  lightheadedness 
were  her  safeguards,  and  she  returned  to  Galway 
only  a  little  wearied  by  the  long  chase  after  amuse- 
ment. 

The  soft  Irish  summer  is  pleasant  after  the  glare 
of  foreign  towns,  and  the  country,  the  rickety  stone 
walls  and  the  herds  of  cattle,  the  deep  curved  lines 
of  the  plantations  of  the  domain  lands,  the  long 
streaks  of  brown  bog,  the  flashing  tarns  of  bog- 
water,  and  the  ruined  cottage,  lay  dozing  in  beautiful 
silvery  haze.  There  was  much  charm  for  Alice  in 
these  familiar  signs ;  and,  although  she  did  not 
approve  of — although  she  would  not  care  ever  to 
meet  them  again — the  people  she  had  met  at  Ostend 
and  Dieppe  had  interested  her.  She  had  picked  up 
ideas  and  had  received  impressions,  and  with  these 
germinating  in  her,  a  time  of  quiet,  a  time  for 
reading  and  thinking,  came  as  a  welcome  change 
after  the  noise  of  casinos  and  the  glitter  of  fireworks. 
The  liberty  she  had  enjoyed,  the  sense  it  had 
brought  with  it  that  she  was  neither  a  doll  nor  a 
victim,  had    rendered    her    singularly   happy.     The 


286  MUSLIN 

plot  of  a  new  story  was  singing  in  her  head,  the 
characters  flitted  before  her  eyes,  and  to  think  of 
them  or  to  tell  Cecilia  of  them  was  a  pleasure 
sufficient  for  all  her  daily  desire.  Olive,  too,  was 
glad.  The  sunlight  has  gone  into  her  blood,  and 
she  romps  with  her  mother  and  Milord  amid  the 
hay,  or,  stretched  at  length,  she  listens  to  the 
green  air  of  the  lawn,  her  dreams  ripple  like  water 
along  a  vessel's  side,  the  white  wake  of  the  past  in 
bubble  behind  her ;  and  when  the  life  of  the  land- 
scape is  burnt  out,  and  the  day  in  dying  seems  to 
have  left  its  soul  behind,  she  stands  watching,  her 
thoughts  curdling  gently,  the  elliptical  flight  of  the 
swallows  through  the  gloom,  and  the  flutter  of  the 
bats  upon  the  dead  sky. 

But  the  thoughtless  brain,  fed  for  many  weeks 
upon  noise  and  glitter,  soon  began  to  miss  its  accus- 
tomed stimulants,  and  Mrs.  Barton  was  quick  to 
comprehend  sudden  twitchings  of  the  face  and 
abrupt  movements  of  the  limbs.  And,  keenly  alive 
to  what  was  passing  in  her  daughter's  mind,  she 
insisted  on  Olive's  accompanying  her  to  the  tennis- 
parties  with  which  the  county  teemed.  Sir  Charles, 
Mr.  Adair,  and  even  poor  Sir  Richard  were  put  for- 
ward as  the  most  eligible  of  men. 

'  It  is  impossible  to  say  when  the  big  fish  will  be 
caught ;  it  is  often  the  last  try  that  brings  him  to 
land,'  murmured  Mrs.  Barton.  But  Olive  had  lost 
courage,  and  could  fix  her  thoughts  on  no  one.  And, 
often  when  they  returned  home,  she  would  retire  to 
her  room  to  have  a  good  cry. 

'  Leave  me  alone,  Alice  ;  oh,  go  away.  Don't  tease 
me,  don't  tease  me  !     I  only  want  to  be  left  alone.' 


MUSLIN  287 

'  But  listen,  dear  ;  can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?' 

'  You !  no,  no,  indeed  you  can't.  I  only  want  to 
be  left  alone.  I  am  so  miserable,  so  unhappy  ;  I 
wish  I  were  dead  !' 

'  Dead  ?' 

'  Yes,  dead  ;  what's  the  use  of  living  when  I  know 
that  I  shall  be  an  old  maid  ?  We  shall  all  be  old 
maids.  What's  the  use  of  being  pretty,  either,  when 
Violet,  though  she  be  but  a  bag  of  bones,  has  got  the 
Marquis  ?  I  have  been  out  two  seasons  now,  and 
nothing  has  come  of  all  the  trying.  And  yet  I  was 
the  belle  of  the  season,  wasn't  I,  Alice  ?'  And  now, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  a  cameo  Niobe,  Olive 
stared  at  her  sister  piteously.  '  Oh  yes,  Alice,  I  know 
I  shall  be  an  old  maid ;  and  isn't  it  dreadful,  and  I 
the  belle  of  the  season  ?  It  makes  me  so  unhappy. 
No  one  ever  heard  of  the  belle  (and  I  was  the  belle 
not  of  one,  but  of  two  seasons)  remaining  an  old  maid. 
I  can  understand  a  lot  of  ugly  things  not  getting 
married,  but  I ' 

Alice  smiled,  and  half  ironically  she  asked  herself 
if  Olive  really  suffered.  No  heart-pang  was  reflected 
in  those  blue  mindless  eyes ;  there  was  no  heart  to 
wound :  only  a  little  foolish  vanity  had  been 
bruised. 

'  And  to  think,'  cried  this  whimpering  beauty,  when 
Alice  had  seen  her  successfully  through  a  flood  of  hys- 
terical tears,  '  that  I  was  silly  enough  to  give  up  dear 
Edward.  I  am  punished  for  it  now,  indeed  I  am  ; 
and  it  was  very  wicked  of  me — it  was  a  great  sin.  I 
broke  his  heart.  But  you  know,  Alice  dear,  that  it 
was  all  mamma's  fault ;  she  urged  me  on ;  and  you 
know  how  I  refused,  how  I  resisted  her.     Didn't  I 


288  MUSLIN 

resist — tell  me.     You  know,  and  why  won't  you  say 
that  I  did  resist  ?' 

'  You  did,  indeed,  Olive  ;  but  you  must  not  distress 
yourself,  or  you  will  make  yourself  ill.' 

'  Yes,  perhaps  you  are  right,  there's  nothing  makes 
one  look  so  ugly  as  crying,  and  if  I  lost  my  looks  and 
met  Edward  he  might  not  care  for  me.  He'd  be  dis- 
appointed, I  mean — but  I  haven't  lost  my  looks  ;  I  am 
just  as  pretty  as  I  was  when  I  came  out  first.  Am  I 
not,  Alice  ?' 

'  Indeed  you  are,  dear.' 

1  You  don't  think  I  have  gone  off  a  bit — now  do 
tell  me  ?  and  I  want  to  ask  you  what  you  think  of 
my  hair  in  a  fringe ;  Papa  says  it  isn't  classical,  but 
that's  nonsense.  I  wish  I  knew  how  Edward  would 
like  me  to  wear  it.' 

'  But  you  mustn't  think  of  him,  Olive  dear  ;  you 
know  mother  would  never  hear  of  it.' 

'  I  can't  help  thinking  of  him.  .  .  .  And  now  I 
will  tell  you  something,  Alice,  if  you  promise  me  on 
your  word  of  honour  not  to  scold  me,  and,  above  all, 
not  to  tell  mamma.' 

'  I  promise.' 

'  Well,  the  other  day  I  was  walking  at  the  end  of 
the  lawn  feeling  so  very  miserable.  You  don't  know 
how  miserable  I  feel  ;  you  are  never  miserable,  for 
you  think  of  nothing  but  your  books.  Well  (mind, 
you  have  given  me  your  word  not  to  tell  anyone),  I 
saw  Captain  Hibbert  riding  along  the  road,  and  when 
he  saw  me  he  stopped  his  horse  and  kissed  his  hand 
to  me.' 

1  And  what  did  you  do  ?' 

'  I   don't  know  what  I  did.     He  called  me,  and 


MUSLIN  289 

then  I  saw  Milord  coming  along  the  road,  and  fled ; 
but,  oh,  isn't  it  cruel  of  mamma  to  have  forbidden 
Edward  to  come  and  see  us  ?  and  he  loving  me  as 
much  as  ever.' 

This  was  not  the  moment  to  advise  her  sister 
against  clandestine  meetings  with  Captain  Hibbert ; 
she  was  sobbing  violently,  and  Alice  had  to  assure 
her  again  and  again  that  no  one  who  had  been  the 
belle  of  the  season  had  ever  remained  an  old  maid. 
But  Alice  (having  well  in  mind  the  fate  that  had  be- 
fallen May  Gould)  grew  not  a  little  alarmed  when, 
in  the  course  of  next  week,  she  suddenly  noticed  that 
Olive  was  in  the  habit  of  going  out  for  long  walks 
alone,  and  that  she  invariably  returned  in  a  state  of 
high  spirits,  all  the  languor  and  weariness  seeming  to 
have  fallen  from  her. 

Alice  once  thought  of  following  her  sister.  She 
watched  her  open  the  wicket  and  walk  across  the 
meadows  towards  the  Lawler  domain.  There  was 
a  bypath  there  leading  to  the  highroad,  but  the 
delicacy  of  their  position  in  relation  to  the  owners 
prevented  the  Bartons  from  ever  making  use  of  it. 
Nor  did  Alice  fail  to  notice  that  about  the  same 
time,  Barnes,  on  the  pretence  of  arranging  the 
room  for  the  evening,  would  strive  to  drive  her 
from  her  writing-table,  and  beds  were  made  and 
unmade,  dresses  were  taken  out  of  the  wardrobe, 
and  importuning  conversations  were  begun.  But, 
taking  no  heed  of  the  officious  maid,  Alice,  her 
thoughts  tense  with  anxiety,  sat  at  her  window 
watching  the  slender  figure  of  the  girl  growing 
dim  in  the  dying  light.  Once  she  did  not  return 
until    it   was   quite    dark,   and,  reproaching   herself 

T 


290  MUSLIN 

for  having   remained   so  long    silent,  Alice  walked 
across  the  pleasure-grounds  to  meet  her. 

'  What,  you  here  ?'  cried  Olive,  surprised  at  finding 
her  sister  waiting  for  her  at  the  wicket.  She  was  out 
of  breath  ;  she  had  evidently  been  running. 

c  Yes,  Olive,  I  was  anxious  to  speak  to  you — you 
must  know  that  it  is  very  wrong  to  meet  Captain 
Hibbert — and  in  the  secrecy  of  a  wood  !' 

f  Who  told  you  I  had  been  to  meet  Captain 
Hibbert  ?     I  suppose  you  have  been  following  me  !' 

'  No,  Olive,  I  haven't,  and  you  have  no  right  to 
accuse  me  of  such  meaness.  I  have  not  been  follow- 
ing you,  but  I  cannot  help  putting  two  and  two  to- 
gether. You  told  me  something  of  this  once  before, 
and  since  then  you  have  scarcely  missed  an  evening.' 

'  Well,  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  meeting  Edward  ; 
he  is  going  to  marry  me.' 

1  Going  to  marry  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  going  to  marry  me  ;  is  there  anything  so 
very  extraordinary  in  that  ?  Mamma  had  no  right 
to  break  off  the  match,  and  I  am  not  going  to  remain 
an  old  maid.' 

'  And  have  you  told  mother  about  this  ?' 

f  No,  where's  the  use,  since  she  won't  hear  of  it  ?' 

'  And  are  you  going  to  run  away  with  Captain 
Hibbert  ?' 

'  Run  away  with  him  !'  exclaimed  Olive,  laughing 
strangely.     '  No,  of  course  I  am  not.' 

'  And  how  are  you  to  marry  him  if  you  don't  tell 
mother  ?' 

'  I  shall  tell  her  when  the  time  comes  to  tell  her. 
And  now,  Alice  dear,  you  will  promise  not  to  betray 
me,  won't  you  ?     You  will  not  speak  about  this  to 


MUSLIN  291 

anyone,  you  promise  me  ?  If  you  did,  I  know  I 
should  go  mad  or  kill  myself'.' 

'  But  when  will  you  tell  mother  of  your  resolution 
to  marry  Captain  Hibbert  ?' 

'  Tell  her  ?  I'll  tell  her  to-morrow  if  you  like  ;  that 
is  to  say,  if  you  will  give  me  your  word  of  honour  not 
to  speak  to  her  about  my  meeting  Edward  in  the 
Lawler  Wood.' 

Afterwards  Alice  often  wondered  at  her  dullness  in 
not  guessing  the  truth.  But  at  the  time  it  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  Olive  might  have  made  arrange- 
ments to  elope  with  Captain  Hibbert ;  and,  on  the 
understanding  that  all  was  to  be  explained  on  the 
following  day,  she  promised  to  keep  her  sister's 
secret. 

XXV 

Lord  Dungory  dined  at  Brookfield  that  evening. 
He  noticed  that  Olive  was  nervous  and  restless, 
and  he  reminded  her  of  what  a  French  poet  had 
said  on  the  subject  of  beauty.  But  she  only  turned 
her  fair  head  impatiently,  and  a  little  later  on  when 
her  mother  spoke  to  her  she  burst  into  tears.  Nor 
was  she  as  easily  consoled  as  usual,  and  she  did  not 
become  calm  until  Mrs.  Barton  suggested  that  her 
dear  child  was  ill,  and  that  she  would  go  upstairs 
and  put  her  to  bed.  Then,  looking  a  little  alarmed, 
Olive  declared  she  was  quite  well,  but  she  passionately 
begged  to  be  left  alone.  As  they  left  the  dining- 
room  she  attempted  to  slip  away  ;  Alice  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  follow  her,  but  Mrs.  Barton  said  : 
'  Leave  her  to  herself,  Alice  ;  she  would  rather  be, 


292  MUSLIN 

left  alone.  She  has  overstrained  her  nerves,  that  is 
all.* 

Olive  heard  these  words  with  a  singular  satisfac- 
tion, and  as  she  ascended  the  stairs  from  the  first 
landing,  her  heart  beat  less  violently.  On  the  thresh- 
old of  her  room  she  paused  to  listen  for  the  drawing- 
room  door  to  shut.  Through  the  silent  house  the 
lock  sounded  sharply. 

e  I  hope  none  of  them  will  come  upstairs  bothering 
after  me,'  the  girl  murmured  to  herself.  '  If  they  do 
I  shall  go  mad  ;'  and  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  she  looked  round  the  room  vacantly,  unable  to 
collect  her  thoughts.  The  wardrobe  was  on  her  right, 
and,  seeing  herself  in  the  glass,  she  wondered  if  she 
were  looking  well.  Her  eyes  wandered  from  her 
face  to  her  shoulders,  and  thence  to  her  feet.  Going 
over  to  the  toilette-table  she  sought  amid  her  boots, 
and,  having  selected  a  strong  pair,  she  began  to 
button  them.  Her  back  was  turned  to  the  door, 
and  at  the  slightest  sound  she  started.  Once  or  twice 
the  stairs  creaked,  and  she  felt  something  would 
occur  to  stop  her.  Her  heart  was  beating  so  vio- 
lently that  she  thought  she  was  going  to  be  ill ;  and 
she  almost  burst  out  crying  because  she  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  if  she  should  put  on  a  hat  and 
travelling-shawl,  or  run  down  to  the  wood  as  she 
was,  to  meet  the  Captain.  '  He  will  surely,'  she 
thought,  'have  something  in  the  carriage  to  put 
around  me,  but  he  may  bring  the  dog-cart,  and  it 
looks  very  cold.  But  if  Alice  or  mamma  saw  me 
coming  downstairs  with  a  shawl  on,  they'd  suspect 
something,  and  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  get  away.  I 
wonder  what  time  it  is  ?    I  promised  to  meet  Edward 


MUSLIN  293 

at  nine ;  he'll  of  course  wait  for  me,  but  what  time 
is  it  ?  We  dined  at  half-past  seven ;  we  were  an 
hour  at  dinner,  half-past  eight,  and  I  have  been  ten 
minutes  here.  It  must  be  nearly  nine  now,  and  it 
will  take  me  ten  minutes  to  get  to  the  corner  of  the 
road.     The  house  is  quiet  now.' 

Olive  ran  down  a  few  steps,  but  at  that  moment 
heavy  footsteps  and  a  jingling  of  glasses  announced 
that  the  butler  was  carrying  glasses  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  pantry.  (  When  will  he  cease,  when  will 
he  cease  ;  will  he  hang  about  that  passage  all  night  ?' 
the  girl  asked  herself  tremblingly ;  and  so  cruel,  so 
poignant  had  her  suspense  become,  that  had  it  been 
prolonged  much  further  her  overwrought  nerves  would 
have  given  way,  and  she  would  have  lapsed  into  a  fit 
of  hysterics.  But  the  tray-full  of  glasses  she  had 
heard  jingling  were  now  being  washed,  and  the  irri- 
tative butler  did  not  stir  forth  again.  This  was  Olive's 
opportunity.  From  the  proximity  of  the  drawing- 
room  to  the  hall-door  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
open  it  without  being  heard ;  the  kitchen-door  Avas 
equally,  even  more,  dangerous,  and  she  could  hear 
the  servants  stirring  in  the  passages ;  there  was  no 
safe  way  of  getting  out  of  the  house  unseen,  except 
through  the  dining-room. 

The  candles  were  lighted,  the  crumbs  were  still  on 
the  tablecloth  ;  passing  behind  the  red  curtain  she 
unlocked  the  French  window,  and  she  shivered  in 
the  keen  wind  that  was  blowing. 

It  was  almost  as  bright  as  day.  A  September 
moon  rose  red,  and  in  a  broken  and  fragmentary 
way  the  various  aspects  of  the  journey  that  lay 
before  her  were  anticipated :  as  she  ran  across  the 


294  MUSLIN 

garden  swards  she  saw  the  post-horses  galloping 
in  front  of  her ;  as  her  nervous  fingers  strove  to 
unfasten  the  wicket,  she  thought  of  the  railway- 
carriage  ;  and  as  she  passed  under  the  great  dark 
trunks  of  the  chestnut-trees  she  dreamed  of  Edward's 
arm  that  would  soon  be  cast  protectingly  around 
her,  and  his  face,  softer  than  the  leafy  shadows 
above  her,  would  be  leaned  upon  her,  and  his  eyes 
filled  with  a  brighter  light  than  the  moon's  would 
look  down  into  hers. 

The  white  meadow  that  she  crossed  so  swiftly 
gleamed  like  the  sea,  and  the  cows  loomed  through 
the  greyness  like  peaceful  apparitions.  But  the  dark 
wood  with  its  sepulchral  fir-tops  and  mysteriously 
spreading  beech-trees  was  foil  of  formless  terror,  and 
once  the  girl  screamed  as  the  birds  flew  with  an  awful 
sound  through  the  dark  undergrowth.  A  gloomy 
wood  by  night  has  terrors  for  the  bravest,  and  it  was 
only  the  certainty  that  she  was  leaving  girl-life — 
chaperons,  waltz-tunes,  and  bitter  sneering,  for  ever — 
that  gave  courage  to  proceed.  A  bit  of  moss-grown 
wall,  a  singularly  shaped  holly-bush,  a  white  stone, 
took  fantastic  and  supernatural  appearances,  and  once 
she  stopped,  paralyzed  with  fear,  before  the  grotesque 
shadow  that  a  dead  tree  threw  over  an  unexpected 
glade.  A  strange  bird  rose  from  the  bare  branches, 
and  at  that  moment  her  dress  was  caught  by  a 
bramble,  and,  when  her  shriek  tore  the  dark  still- 
ness, a  hundred  wings  flew  through  the  pallor  of  the 
waning  moon. 

At  the  end  of  this  glade  there  was  a  paling  and  a 
stile  that  Olive  would  have  to  cross,  and  she  could 
now  hear,  as  she  ran  forward,  the  needles  of  the  silver 


MUSLIN  295 

firs  rustling  with  a  pricking  sound  in  the  wind.  The 
heavy  branches  stretched  from  either  side,  and  Olive 
thought  when  she  had  passed  this  dernful  alley  she 
would  have  nothing  more  to  fear  ;  and  she  ran  on 
blindly  until  she  almost  fell  in  the  arms  of  someone 
whom  she  instantly  believed  to  be  Edward. 

1  Oh  !  Edward,  Edward,  I  am  nearly  dead  with 
fright !'  she  exclaimed. 

' 1  am  not  Edward,'  a  woman  answered.  Olive 
started  a  step  backwards ;  she  would  have  fainted, 
but  at  the  moment  the  words  were  spoken  Mrs. 
Lawler's  face  was  revealed  in  a  beam  of  weak  light 
that  fell  through  a  vista  in  the  branches. 
'  Who  are  you  ?  Let  me  pass.' 
1  Who  am  I  ?  You  know  well  enough  ;  we  haven't 
been  neighbours  for  fifteen  years  without  knowing 
each  other  by  sight.  So  you  are  going  to  run  away 
with  Captain  Hibbert !' 

'  Oh,  Mrs.  Lawler,  let  me  pass.  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry,  I  cannot  wait ;  and  you  won't  say  anything 
about  meeting  me  in  the  wood,  will  you  ?' 

'  Let  you  pass,  indeed ;  and  what  do  you  think  I 
came  here  for  ?  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it — all  about 
the  corner  of  the  road,  and  the  carriage  and  post- 
horses  !  a  very  nice  little  plan  and  very  nicely  arranged, 
but  I'm  afraid  it  won't  come  off — at  least,  not  to- 
night.' 

'  Oh,  won't  it,  and  why  ?'  cried  Olive,  clasping  her 
hands.     '  Then  it  was  Edward  who  sent  you  to  meet 

me,  to  tell  me  that — that What  has  happened  ?' 

1  Sent  me  to  tell  you  !  Whom  do  you  take  me  for  ? 
Is  it  for  a — well,  a  nice  piece  of  cheek  !  I  carry  your 
messages  ?     Well,  I  never !' 


296  MUSLIN 

'  Then  what  did  you  come  here  for — how  did  you 
know  ?  .  .  .' 

'  How  did  I  know  ?  That's  my  business.  What 
did  I  come  here  for  ?  What  do  you  think  ?  Why, 
to  prevent  you  from  going  off  with  Teddy.' 

<  With  Teddy  !' 

'  Yes,  with  Teddy.  Do  you  think  no  one  calls  him 
Teddy  but  yourself?' 

Then  Olive  understood,  and,  with  her  teeth 
clenched  she  said,  f  No,  it  isn't  true  ;  it  is  a  lie  ; 
I  will  not  believe  it.  Let  me  pass.  What  business 
have  you  to  detain  me  ? — what  right  have  you  to 
speak  to  me  ?  We  don't  know  you  ;  no  one  knows 
you  :  you  are  a  bad  woman  whom  no  one  will  know.' 

1  A  bad  woman  !  I  like  that — and  from  you.  And 
what  do  you  want  to  be,  why  are  you  running  away 
from  home  ?  Why,  to  be  what  I  was.  We're  all 
alike,  the  same  blood  runs  in  our  veins,  and  when 
the  devil  is  in  us  we  must  have  sweethearts,  get 
them  how  we  may :  the  airs  and  graces  come  on 
after ;  they  are  only  so  much  trimming.' 

'  How  dare  you  insult  me,  you  bad  woman  ?  Let 
me  pass  ;  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.' 

'  Oh  yes,  you  do.  You  think  Teddy  will  take  you 
off  to  Paris,  and  spoon  you  and  take  you  out ;  but  he 
won't,  at  least  not  to-night.  I  shan't  give  him  up  so 
easily  as  you  think  for,  my  lady.' 

'  Give  him  up !  What  is  he  to  you  ?  How  dare 
you  speak  so  of  my  future  husband  ?  Captain  Hib- 
bert  only  loves  me,  he  has  often  told  me  so.' 

f  Loves  nobody  but  you  !  I  suppose  you  think  that 
he  never  kissed,  or  spooned,  or  took  anyone  on  his 
knee   but   you.     Well,  I    suppose   at   twenty   we'd 


MUSLIN  297 

believe  anything  a  man  told  us ;  and  we  always 
think  we  are  getting  the  first  of  it  when  we  are  only 
getting  someone  else's  leavings.  But  it  isn't  for 
chicks  of  girls  like  you  that  a  man  cares,  it  isn't  to 
you  a  man  comes  for  the  love  he  wants  ;  your  kisses 
are  very  skim  milk  indeed,  and  it  is  we  who  teach 
them  the  words  of  love  that  they  murmur  afterwards 
in  your  ears.' 

The  women  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  and 
both  heard  the  needles  shaken  through  the  darkness 
above  them.  Mrs.  Lawler  stood  by  the  stile,  her 
hand  was  laid  on  the  paling.     At  last  Olive  said  : 

'  Let  me  pass.  I  will  not  listen  to  you  any  longer  ; 
nor  do  I  believe  a  word  you  have  said.  We  all  know 
what  you  are  ;  you  are  a  bad  woman  whom  no  one 
will  visit.  Let  me  pass !'  and  pushing  passionately 
forward  she  attempted  to  cross  the  stile.  Then 
Mrs.  Lawler  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  threw  her 
roughly  back.     She  fell  to  the  ground  heavily. 

'  Now  you  had  better  get  up  and  go  home,'  said 
Mrs.  Lawler,  and  she  approached  the  prostrate  girl. 
c  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you ;  but  you  shan't  elope 
with  Teddy  if  I  can  prevent  it.  Why  don't  you 
get  up  ?' 

(  Oh  !  my  leg,  my  leg  ;  you  have  broken  my  leg  !' 

'  Let  me  help  you  up.' 

'  Don't  touch  me/  said  Olive,  attempting  to  rise ; 
but  the  moment  she  put  her  right  foot  to  the  ground 
she  shrieked  with  pain,  and  fell  again. 

'  Well,  if  you  are  going  to  take  it  in  that  way,  you 
may  remain  where  you  are,  and  I  can't  go  and  ring 
them  up  at  Brookfield.  I  don't  think  there  will  be 
much  eloping  done  to-night,  so  farewell.' 


298  MUSLIN 


XXVI 


About  ten  o'clock  on  the  night  of  Olive's  elopement, 
Alice  knocked  tremblingly  at  her  mother's  door. 

(  Mother,'  she  said,  '  Olive  is  not  in  her  room,  nor 
yet  in  the  house  ;  I  have  looked  for  her  everywhere.' 

'  She  is  downstairs  with  her  father  in  the  studio,' 
said  Mrs.  Barton  ;  and,  signing  to  her  daughter  to 
be  silent,  she  led  her  out  of  hearing  of  Barnes,  who 
was  folding  and  putting  some  dresses  away  in  the 
wardrobe. 

'  I  have  been  down  to  the  studio,'  Alice  replied  in 
a  whisper. 

1  Then  I  am  afraid  she  has  run  away  with  Captain 
Hibbert.  But  we  shall  gain  nothing  by  sending  men 
out  with  lanterns  and  making  a  fuss  ;  by  this  time 
she  is  well  on  her  way  to  Dublin.  She  might  have 
done  better  than  Captain  Hibbert,  but  she  might 
also  have  done  worse.  She  will  write  to  us  in  a  few 
days  to  tell  us  that  she  is  married,  and  to  beg  of  us 
to  forgive  her.' 

And  that  night  Mrs.  Barton  slept  even  more 
happily,  with  her  mind  more  completely  at  rest, 
than  usual ;  whereas  Alice,  fevered  with  doubt  and 
apprehension,  lay  awake.  At  seven  o'clock  she  was 
at  her  window,  watching  the  grey  morning  splinter 
into  sunlight  over  the  quiet  fields.  Through  the 
mist  the  gamekeeper  came,  and  another  man,  carry- 
ing a  woman  between  them,  and  the  suspicion  that 
her  sister  might  have  been  killed  in  an  agrarian 
outrage  gripped  her  heart  like  an  iron  hand.  She 
ran  downstairs,  and,  rushing  across  the  gravel,  opened 


MUSLIN  299 

the  wicket-gate.  Olive  was  moaning  with  pain,  but 
her  moans  were  a  sweet  reassurance  in  Alice's  ears, 
and  without  attempting  to  understand  the  man's 
story  of  how  Miss  Olive  had  sprained  her  ankle  in 
crossing  the  stile  in  their  wood,  and  how  he  had 
found  her  as  he  was  going  his  rounds,  she  gave  the 
man  five  shillings,  thanked  him,  and  sent  him  away. 
Barnes  and  the  butler  then  carried  Olive  upstairs, 
and  in  the  midst  of  much  confusion  Mr.  Barton  rode 
down  the  avenue  in  quest  of  Dr.  Reed — galloped 
down  the  avenue,  his  pale  hair  blowing  in  the  breeze. 

'  I  wish  you  had  come  straight  to  me,'  said 
Mrs.  Barton  to  Alice,  as  soon  as  Barnes  had  left 
the  room.  '  We'd  have  got  her  upstairs  between  us, 
and  then  we  might  have  told  any  story  we  liked 
about  her  illness.' 

'  But  the  Lawlers'  gamekeeper  would  know  all 
about  it.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  that's  true.  I  never  heard  of  anything 
so  unfortunate  in  my  life.  An  elopement  is  never 
very  respectable,  but  an  elopement  that  does  not 
succeed,  when  the  girl  comes  home  again,  is  just 
as  bad  as — I  cannot  think  how  Olive  could  have 
managed  to  meet  Captain  Hibbert  and  arrange  all 
this  business,  without  my  finding  it  out.  I  feel  sure 
she  must  have  had  the  assistance  of  a  third  party. 
I  feel  certain  that  all  this  is  Barnes's  doing.  I  am 
beginning  to  hate  that  woman,  with  her  perpetual 
smile,  but  it  won't  do  to  send  her  away  now ;  we 
must  wait.'  And  on  these  words  Mrs.  Barton 
proached  the  bed. 

Shaken  with  sudden  fits  of  shivering,  and  her 
teeth   chattering,  Olive  lay   staring   blindly  at  her 


300  MUSLIN 

mother  and  sister.  Her  eyes  were  expressive  at 
once  of  fear  and  pain. 

f  And  now,  my  own  darling,  will  you  tell  me  how 
all  this  happened  ?' 

'  Oh,  not  now,  mother — not  now  ...  I  don't  know  ; 
I  couldn't  help  it.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  scold  me,  I  feel 
too  ill  to  bear  it.' 

1 1  am  not  thinking  of  scolding  you,  dearest,  and 
you  need  not  tell  me  anything  you  do  not  like.  .  .  . 
I  know  you  were  going  to  run  away  with  Captain 
Hibbert,  and  met  with  an  accident  crossing  the  stile 
in  the  Lawler  Wood.' 

( Oh,  yes,  yes  ;  I  met  that  horrid  woman, 
Mrs.  Lawler ;  she  knew  all  about  it,  and  was 
waiting  for  me  at  the  stile.  She  said  lots  of  dread- 
ful things  to  me  ...  I  don't  remember  what ;  that 
she  had  more  right  to  Edward  than  I ' 

'  Never  mind,  dear  ;  don't  agitate  yourself  think- 
ing of  what  she  said.' 

'  And  then,  as  I  tried  to  pass  her,  she  pushed  me 
and  I  fell,  and  hurt  my  ankle  so  badly  that  I  could  not 
get  up  ;  and  she  taunted  me,  and  she  said  she  could 
not  help  me  home  because  we  were  not  on  visiting 
terms.  And  I  lay  in  that  dreadful  wood  all  night. 
But  I  can't  speak  any  more,  I  feel  too  ill  ;  and  I 
never  wish  to  see  Edward  again.  .  .  .  The  pain  of 
my  ankle  is  something  terrible.' 

Mrs.  Barton  looked  at  Alice  expressively,  and  she 
whispered  in  her  ear : 

'  This  is  all  Barnes's  doing,  but  we  cannot  send  her 
away.  .  .  .  We  must  put  a  bold  face  on  it,  and 
brave  it  out.' 

Dr.  Reed  was  announced. 


MUSLIN  301 

'  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  doctor  ?  .  .  .  It  is  so  good 
of  you  to  come  at  once.  .  .  .  We  were  afraid  Mr. 
Barton  would  not  find  you  at  home.  I  am  afraid 
that  Olive  has  sprained  her  foot  badly.  Last  night 
she  went  out  for  a  walk  rather  late  in  the  evening, 
and,  in  endeavouring  to  cross  a  stile,  she  slipped  and 
hurt  herself  so  badly  that  she  was  unable  to  return 
home,  and  lay  exposed  for  several  hours  to  the  heavy 
night  dews.  I  am  afraid  she  has  caught  a  severe 
cold.  .   .  .     She  has  been  shivering.' 

'  Can  I  see  her  foot  ?' 

'  Certainly.  Olive,  dear,  will  you  allow  Dr.  Reed 
to  see  your  ankle  ?' 

'  Oh,  take  care,  mamma ;  you  are  hurting  me !' 
shrieked  the  girl,  as  Mrs.  Barton  removed  the  bed- 
clothes. At  this  moment  a  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door. 

'  Who  on  earth  is  this  ?'  cried  Mrs.  Barton.  '  Alice, 
will  you  go  and  see  ?  Say  that  I  am  engaged,  and 
can  attend  to  nothing  now.' 

When  Alice  returned  to  the  bedside  she  drew  her 
mother  imperatively  towards  the  window.  '  Captain 
Hibbert  is  waiting  in  the  drawing-room.  He  says 
he  must  see  you.' 

At  the  mention  of  Captain  Hibbert's  name  Mrs. 
Barton's  admirably  governed  temper  showed  signs  of 
yielding :  her  face  contracted  and  she  bit  her  lips. 

'  You  must  go  down  and  see  him.  Tell  him  that 
Olive  is  very  ill  and  that  the  doctor  is  with  her.  And 
mind  you,  you  must  not  answer  any  questions.  Say 
that  I  cannot  see  him,  but  that  I  am  greatly  surprised 
at  his  forcing  his  way  into  my  house  after  what  has 
passed  between  us  ;  that  I  hope  he  will  never  intrude 


302  MUSLIN 

himself  upon  us  again ;  that  I  cannot  have  my 
daughter's  life  endangered,  and  that,  if  he  insists 
on  persecuting  us,  I  shall  have  to  write  to  his 
Colonel.' 

'  Do  you  not  think  that  father  would  be  the 
person  to  make  such  explanations  ?' 

'  You  know  your  father  could  not  be  trusted  to 
talk  sensibly  for  five  minutes — at  least,'  she  said, 
correcting  herself,  '  on  anything  that  did  not  concern 
painting  or  singing.  .  .  .  f  But,'  she  continued, 
following  her  daughter  to  the  door,  '  on  second 
thoughts  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  advisible  to 
bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  ...  I  do  not  know  how 
this  affair  will  affect  Olive's  chances,  and  if  he  is 
anxious  to  marry  her  I  do  not  see  why  he  should 
not ;  .  .  .  she  may  not  be  able  to  get  any  better. 
So  you  had  better,  I  think,  put  him  off — pretend  that 
we  are  very  angry,  and  get  him  to  promise  not  to  try 
to  see  or  to  write  to  Olive  until,  let  us  say,  the  end  of 
the  year.  It  will  only  make  him  more  keen  on 
her.' 

When  Alice  opened  the  drawing-room  door  Cap- 
tain Hibbert  rushed  forward  ;  his  soft  eyes  were 
bright  with  excitement,  and  his  tall  figure  was 
thrown  into  a  beautiful  pose  when  he  stopped. 

'  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Barton.  I  had 
expected  your  sister.' 

'  My  sister  is  very  ill  in  bed,  and  the  doctor  is 
with  her.' 

<  111  in  bed  !' 

'  Yes,  she  sprained  her  ankle  last  night  in  attempt- 
ing to  cross  the  stile  in  the  wood  at  the  end  of  our 
lawn.' 


MUSLIN  303 

1  Oh,  that  was  the  reason  .  .  .  then.  .  .  .  Can  I 
see  your  sister  for  a  few  minutes  ?' 

'  It  is  quite  impossible  ;  and  my  mother  desires  me 
to  say  that  she  is  very  much  surprised  that  you  should 
come  here.  .  .  .  We  know  all  about  your  attempt 
to  induce  Olive  to  leave  her  home.' 

'  Then  she  has  told  }'ou  ?  But  if  you  knew  how  I 
love  her,  you  would  not  blame  me.  What  else  could 
I  do  ?  Your  mother  would  not  let  me  see  her,  and 
she  was  very  unhappy  at  home ;  you  did  not  know 
this,  but    I    did,  and    if  luck   hadn't  been   against 

me Ah  !  but  what's  the  use  in  talking  of  luck  ; 

luck  was  against  me,  or  she  would  have  been  my  wife 
now.  And  what  a  little  thing  suffices  to  blight  a 
man's  happiness  in  life ;  what  a  little,  oh,  what  a 
little  !'  he  said,  speaking  in  a  voice  full  of  bitterness  ; 
and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Alice's  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  were  expressive 
of  her  thoughts — they  beamed  at  once  with  pity  and 
admiration.  He  was  but  the  ordinary  handsome 
young  man  that  in  England  nature  seems  to  repro- 
duce in  everlasting  stereotype.  Long  graceful  legs, 
clad  in  tight -fitting  trousers,  slender  hips  rising 
architecturally  to  square  wide  shoulders,  a  thin 
strong  neck  and  a  tiny  head — yes,  a  head  so  small 
that  an  artist  would  at  once  mark  off  eight  on  his 
sheet  of  double  elephant.  And  now  he  lay  over  the 
back  of  a  chair  weeping  like  a  child  ;  in  the  intensity 
of  his  grief  he  was  no  longer  commonplace ;  and  as 
Alice  looked  at  this  superb  animal  thrown  back  in 
a  superb  abandonment  of  pose,  her  heart  filled  with 
the  natural  pity  that  the  female  feels  always  for  the 
male  in  distress,  and  the  impulse  within  her  was  to 


304  MUSLIN 

put  her  arms  about  him  and  console  him  ;  and  then 
she  understood  her  sister's  passion  for  him,  and  her 
mind  formulated  it  thus  :  '  How  handsome  he  is  ! 
Any  girl  would  like  a  man  like  that.'  And  as  Alice 
surrendered  herself  to  those  sensuous,  or  rather 
romantic  feelings,  her  nature  quickened  to  a  sense 
of  pleasure,  and  she  grew  gentler  with  him,  and  was 
glad  to  listen  while  he  sobbed  out  his  sorrows  to  her. 

'  Oh,  why,'  he  exclaimed,  '  did  she  fall  over  that 
thrice-accursed  stile !  In  five  minutes  more  we 
would  have  been  in  each  other's  arms,  and  for  ever. 
I  had  a  couple  of  the  best  post-horses  in  Gort ;  they'd 
have  taken  us  to  Athenry  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
then Oh  !  what  luck,  what  luck  !' 

'  But  do  you  not  know  that  Olive  met  Mrs.  Lawler 
in  the  wood,  and  that  it  was  she  who ' 

'  What  do  you  say  ?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  it  was  Mrs.  Lawler  who  prevented  Olive  from 
meeting  me  ?  Oh,  what  beasts,  what  devils  women 
are,'  he  said  ;  '  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  one  cannot 
be  even  with  them,  and  they  know  it.  If  you 
only  knew,'  he  said,  turning  almost  fiercely  upon 
Alice,  '  how  I  loved  your  sister,  you  would  pity  me  ; 
but  I  suppose  it  is  all  over  now.     Is  she  very  ill  ?' 

'We  don't  know  yet.  She  has  sprained  her  ankle 
very  badly,  and  is  shivering  terribly  ;  she  was  lying 
out  all  night  in  the  wet  wood.' 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  walked  once  or 
twice  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then  he  said, 
taking  Alice's  hand  in  his,  '  Will  you  be  a  friend  to 
me,  Miss  Barton  ?'  He  could  get  no  further,  for 
tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 

Alice    looked    at   him    tenderly  ;    she    was    much 


MUSLIN  805 

touched  by  the  manifestation  of  his  love,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  long  silence  she  said  : 

'  Now,  Captain  Hibbert,  I  want  you  to  listen  to 
me.  Don't  cry  any  more,  but  listen.' 
'  I  dare  say  I  look  a  great  fool.' 
e  No,  indeed  you  do  not,'  she  answered  ;  and  then 
in  kindly  worded  phrases  she  told  him  that,  at  least 
for  the  present,  he  must  not  attempt  to  correspond 
with  Olive.  '  Give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you 
will  neither  write  nor  speak  to  her  for,  let  us  say,  six 
months,  and  I  will  promise  to  be  your  friend.' 

'  I  will  do  anything  you  ask  me  to  do,  but  will  you 
in  return  promise  to  write  and  tell  me  how  she  is 
getting  on,  and  if  she  is  in  any  danger  ?' 

'  I  think  I  can  promise  to  do  that ;  I  will  write 
and  tell  you  how  Olive  is  in  a  few  days.  Now  we 
must  say  good-bye  ;  and  you  will  not  forget  your 
promise  to  me,  as  I  shall  not  forget  mine  to  you.' 

When  Alice  went  upstairs,  Dr.  Reed  and  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton were  talking  on  the  landing. 

'  And  what  do  you  think,  doctor  ?'  asked  the 
anxious  mother. 

c  It  is  impossible  to  say.  She  has  evidently  re- 
ceived a  severe  nervous  shock,  and  this  and  the 
exposure  to  which  she  was  subjected  may  develop 
into  something  serious.  You  will  give  her  that 
Dover's  powder  to-night,  and  you  will  see  that  she 
has  absolute  quiet  and  rest.  Have  you  got  a  reliable 
nurse  ?' 

f  Yes,  the  young  ladies  have  a  maid ;  I  think 
Barnes  can  be  trusted  to  carry  out  your  orders, 
doctor.' 

1  Oh,  mamma,  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  nurse 
u 


306  MUSLIN 

my  sister ;  I  should  not  like  to  leave  her  in  charge 
of  a  servant.' 

'  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  strong  enough,  dear.' 
'  Oh,  yes,  I  am  ;  am  I  not  strong  enough,  doctor  ?' 
Dr.  Reed  looked  for  a  moment  steadily  at  Alice. 
1  Your  sister  will,'  he  said,  '  require  a  good  deal  of 
looking  after.  But  if  you  will  not  overdo  it,  I  think 
you  seem  quite  strong  enough  to  nurse  her.  But 
you  must  not  sit  up  at  night  with  her  too  regularly  ; 
you  must  share  the  labour  with  someone.' 

'  She  will  do  that  with  me,'  said  Mrs.  Barton, 
speaking  more  kindly,  Alice  thought,  than  she  had 
ever  heard  her  speak  before. 

Then  a  wailing  voice  was  heard  calling  to  Alice. 
'  Go  in  and  see  what  she  wants,  dear,  but  you  will 
not  encourage  her  to  talk  much  ;  the  doctor  does  not 
wish  it.' 

The  room  did  not  look  the  same  to  Alice  as  it  had 
ever  looked  before.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  Persian 
rugs  laid  between  the  two  white  beds  and  the  tall 
glass  in  the  wardrobe  where  Olive  wasted  half-an- 
hour  every  evening,  examining  her  beauty.  Would 
she  ever  do  so  again  ?  Now  a  broken  reflection  of 
feverish  eyes  and  blonde  hair  was  what  remained. 
The  white  curtains  of  the  chimneypiece  had  been 
drawn  aside,  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  and  Barnes 
was  removing  a  foot-pan  of  hot  water. 

'  Sit  down  here  by  me,  Alice  ;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.' 

'  The  doctor  has  forbidden  you  to  talk,  dear  ;  he 
says  you  must  have  perfect  rest  and  quiet.' 

'  I  must  talk  a  little  to  you  ;  if  I  didn't  I  should  go 
mad.' 


MUSLIN  307 

'  Well,  what  is  it,  dear  ?' 

'  1  will  tell  you  presently/  said  the  sick  girl,  glanc- 
ing at  Barnes. 

'  You  can  tidy  up  the  room  afterwards,  Barnes  ; 
Miss  Olive  wants  to  talk  to  me  now.' 

'  Oh,  Alice,  tell  me,'  cx-ied  the  girl,  when  the 
servant  had  left  the  room,  ( I  don't  want  to  ask 
mamma — she  won't  tell  me  the  exact  truth  ;  but 
you  will.  Tell  me  what  the  doctor  said.  .  .  .  Did 
he  say  I  was  going  to  die  ?' 

'  Going  to  die  ?  Olive,  who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing?  You  really  must  not  give  way  to  such 
fancies.' 

'Well,  tell  me  what  he  said.' 

'  He  said  that  you  had  received  a  severe  nervous 
shock,  that  you  had  been  subjected  to  several  hours' 
exposure,  that  you  must  take  great  care  of  yourself, 
and,  above  all,  have  perfect  rest  and  quiet,  and  not 
excite  yourself,  and  not  talk.' 

'  Is  that  all  he  said  ?  Then  he  cannot  know  how 
ill  I  feel ;  perhaps  I  ought  to  see  another  doctor. 
But  I  don't  believe  anyone  could  do  me  much  good. 
Oh,  I  feel  wretchedly  ill,  and  somehow  I  seem  to 
know  I  am  going  to  die  !  It  would  be  very  horrible 
to  die ;  but  young  girls  no  older  than  I  have  died — 
have  been  cut  off  in  the  beginning  of  their  life.  And 
we  have  seen  nothing  of  life,  only  a  few  balls  and 
parties.  It  would  be  terrible  to  die  so  soon.  When 
Violet  carried  off  the  Marquis  I  felt  so  bitterly 
ashamed  that  I  thought  I  would  have  liked  to  die ; 
but  not  now — now  I  know  that  Edward  loves  me 
I  would  not  care  to  die ;  it  would  be  terrible  to 
die  before  I  was  married.     Wouldn't  it,  Alice  ?  .  . 


308  MUSLIN 

But  you  don't  answer  me  ;  did  you  never  think  about 
death  ?' 

Then,  as  the  thin  wailing  voice  sank  into  her  ears, 
Alice  started  from  her  dreams,  and  she  strove  to 
submit  her  attention  to  her  sister. 

'  Yes,  dear,  of  course  I  have.  Death  is,  no  doubt, 
a  very  terrible  thing,  but  we  can  do  no  good  by 
thinking  of  it.' 

f  Oh  yes,  we  should,  Alice,  for  this  is  not  the  only 
world — there  is  another  and  a  better  one  ;  and,  as 
mamma  says,  and  as  religion  says,  we  are  only  here 
to  try  and  get  a  good  place  in  it.  You  are  surprised 
to  hear  me  speak  like  this  ;  you  think  I  never  think 
of  anything  but  the  colour  of  a  bonnet- string,  but  I 
do.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  do,  Olive  ;  I  never  doubted  it ;  but 
I  wish  you  would  now  do  what  the  doctor  orders,  and 
refrain  from  talking  and  exciting  yourself,  and  try 
and  get  well.  You  may  then  think  of  death  and 
other  gloomy  things  as  much  as  you  like.' 

'  You  don't  understand,  Alice  ;  one  can't  think  of 
death,  then — one  has  so  much  else  to  think  of ;  one 
is  so  taken  up  with  other  ideas.  It  is  only  when  one 
is  ill  that  one  really  begins  to  see  what  life  is.  You 
have  never  been  ill,  and  you  don't  know  how  terribly 
near  death  seems  to  have  come — very  near.  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  see  the  priest ;  it  would  be  just  as  well, 
just  in  case  I  should  die.     Don't  you  think  so  ?' 

'  I  don't  think  there  is  any  more  danger  of  your 
dying  now  than  there  was  a  month  ago,  dear,  and 
I  am  sure  you  can  have  nothing  on  your  mind  that 
demands  immediate  confession,'  she  said,  her  voice 
trembling  a  little. 


MUSLIN  309 

1  Oh  yes,  I  have,  Alice,  and  a  very  great  deal ;  I 
have  been  very  wicked.' 

'  Very  wicked  !' 

'  Well,  I  know  you  aren't  pious,  Alice,  and  perhaps 
you  don't  believe  there  is  harm  in  such  things,  but  I 
do  ;  and  I  know  it  was  very  wrong,  and  perhaps  a 
mortal  sin,  to  try  to  run  away  with  Edward.  But 
I  loved  him  so  very  dearly,  and  I  was  so  tired  of 
staying  at  home  and  being  taken  out  to  parties. 
And  when  you  are  in  love  with  a  man  you  forget 
everything.  At  least  I  did ;  and  when  he  asked  to 
kiss  me  I  couldn't  refuse.  You  won't  tell  anyone, 
Alice  dear,  that  I  told  you  this.'  Alice  shook  her 
head,  and  Olive  continued,  in  spite  of  all  that  the 
doctor  had  said  : 

1  But  you  don't  know  how  lonely  I  feel  at  home  ; 
you  never  feel  lonely,  I  dare  say,  for  you  only  think 
of  your  books  and  papers,  and  don't  realize  what 
a  disgrace  it  would  be  if  I  didn't  marry,  and  after  all 
the  trouble  that  mamma  has  taken.  But  I  don't 
know  what  will  become  of  me  now.  I'm  going  to 
be  dreadfully  ill,  and  when  I  get  well  I  shall  be 
pretty  no  longer ;  I  am  sure  I  am  looking  wretchedly. 
I  must  see  myself — fetch  the  glass,  Alice,  Alice.' 

Olive  lay  whining  and  calling  for  her  sister,  and 
when  Dr.  Reed  came  he  ordered  several  inches  of 
the  pale  silky  hair  to  be  cut  away  and  a  cold  lotion 
to  be  applied  to  the  forehead,  and  some  sliced 
lemons  were  given  to  her  to  suck. 

The  clear  blue  eyes  were  dull,  the  breathing 
quick,  the  skin  dry  and  hot ;  and  on  the  following 
day  four  leeches  had  to  be  applied  to  her  ankle. 
They  relieved   her   somewhat,  and,   when   she   had 


310  MUSLIN 

taken  her  draught,  she  sank  to  sleep.     But  as  the 
night   grew  denser,   Alice  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  someone  speaking  wildly  in  her  ear :  c  Take  me 
away,  dear !     I  am    sick  of   home ;    I  want    to  get 
away  from  all  these  spiteful  girls.     I  know  they  are 
laughing   at    me    because  Violet   cut   me    out  with 
the  Marquis.     We  shall  be  married,  shan't  we,  the 
moment  we  arrive  in  Dublin  ?     It's  horrible  to  be 
married  at  the  registrar's,  but  it's  better  than  not 
being  married  at  all.     But  do  you  think  they  will 
catch  us  up?     It  would  be  dreadful  to  be  taken  back 
home,  I  couldn't  bear  it.     Oh,  do  drive  on  ;  we  don't 
seem  to  be  moving.     You  see  that  strange  tree  on 
the  right,  we  haven't  passed  it  yet ;  I  don't  think 
we  ever  shall.     Whip  up  that  bay  horse  ;   don't  you 
see  he  is  turning  round,  wants  to  go  back  ?     I  am 
sure  that  this  isn't  the  road ;   that  man  at  the  corner 
told  you  a  lie.     I  know  he  was  mocking  at  us — I 
saw  it  in  his  eye.  .   .   .     Look,  look,  Edward  !     Oh, 
look — it   is    papa,    or    Lord    Dungory,    I    can't    tell 
which,    he    won't   lift   his    cloak.'      And   then    the 
vision  would  fade,  and   she   would  fancy  herself  in 
the  wood,  arguing   once    again    with   Mrs.   Lawler. 
1  No,  what  you  say  isn't  true ;  he  never  loved  you. 
How  could  he  ?     You  are  an  old  woman.     Let  me 
pass — let  me  pass.     Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     We 
don't  visit,  we  never  did  visit  you.     No  ;  it  was  not 
at  our  house  you  met  Edward.     You  were  on  the 
streets ;  and  Edward  shall  not,  he  could  not,  think 
of  running  away  with  you — will  you,  darling  ?     Oh, 
help  me,  help  me  out  of  this  dreadful  wood.     I  want 
to  go  home,  but  I  can't  walk.     That  terrible  bird  is 


MUSLIN  311 

still  watching  me,  and  I  dare  not  pass  that  tree  till 
you  drive  it  away.' 

The  two  beds,  with  their  white  curtains  and  brass 
crowns,  showed  through  the  pale  obscurity,  broken 
only  by  the  red -glowing  basin  where  a  night- 
light  burnt,  and  the  long  tongues  of  flame  that  the 
blazing  peat  scattered  from  time  to  time  across  the 
darkened  ceiling.  The  solitude  of  the  sleeping 
house  grew  momentarily  more  intense  in  Alice's 
brain,  and  she  trembled  as  she  strove  to  soothe  her 
sister,  and  covered  the  hot  feverish  arms  over  with 
the  bedclothes. 

'  What  sort  of  night  has  Olive  had  ?'  Mrs.  Barton 
asked  when  she  came  in  about  eight. 

'  Not  a  very  quiet  one ;  I  am  afraid  she's  a  little 
delirious.' 

'  Dr.  Reed  promised  to  be  here  early.  How  do  you 
feel,  dear  ?'  Mrs.  Barton  asked,  leaning  over  the  bed. 

'  Oh,  very  ill ;  I  can  scarcely  breathe,  and  I  have 
such  a  pain  in  my  side.' 

'  Your  lips  look  very  sore,  dear ;  do  they  hurt 
you  ?' — Olive  only  moaned  dismally — and,  looking 
anxiously  at  her  elder  daughter,  she  said  : 

e  And  you,  too,  Alice,  are  not  looking  well.  You 
are  tired,  and  mustn't  sit  up  another  night  with  your 
sister.      To-night  I'll  take  your  place.' 

'  Oh,  mother,  no  !  I  assure  you  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  nurse  Olive.  I  am  very  well  indeed  ;  do  not 
think  about  me.' 

'  Indeed,  I  will  think  about  you,  and  you  must  do 
as  I  tell  you.  I'll  look  after  Olive,  and  you  must 
try  and  get  a  good  night'     rest      We  will  take  it  in 


312  MUSLIN 

turns  to  nurse  her.  And  now  come  down  to  break- 
fast. Barnes,  you'll  not  think  of  leaving  Miss  Olive 
until  we  come  back ;  and,  if  any  change  occurs,  ring 
for  me  immediately.' 

When  Dr.  Reed  arrived,  Alice  was  again  sitting 
by  the  bedside. 

'  And  how  is  our  patient  to-day  ?' 

'  I  cannot  say  she  is  any  better  ;  she  has  a  dis- 
tressing cough,  and  last  night  I  am  afraid  she  was  a 
little  delirious.' 

'  Ah,  you  say  the  cough  is  distressing  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  must  call  it  distressing  ;  is  that  a 
very  bad  sign  ?' 

'  Probably  there  is  not  much  wrong,  but  it  would 
be  better  to  ascertain  the  condition  of  the  patient, 
and  then  we  may  be  able  to  do  something  to  relieve 
her.' 

The  doctor  drew  a  stethoscope  from  his  pocket, 
and  they  lifted  the  patient  into  a  sitting  position. 

'  I  should  like  to  examine  her  chest ;'  and  his 
fingers  moved  to  unfasten  her  night-gown. 

'  Don't  expose  me,'  she  murmured  feebly. 

'  Now,  Olive  dear,  remember  it  is  only  the  doctor ; 
let  him  examine  you.' 

Olive's  eyes  were  a  dull  filmy  blue,  the  lips  were 
covered  with  sores,  and  there  was  a  redness  over 
the  cheekbones — not  the  hectic  flush  of  phthisis, 
but  a  dusky  redness.  And  the  patient  was  so  weak 
that  during  the  stethoscopic  examination  her  head 
fell  from  side  to  side  as  she  was  moved,  and  when 
the  doctor  pressed  her  right  side  her  moans  were 
pregnant  with  pain. 

'  Now  let  me  see  the  tongue.     Dry  and  parched.' 


MUSLIN  313 

'  Shall  I  die,  doctor  ?'  the  girl  asked  feebly  and 
plaintively  as  she  sank  amidst  the  pillows. 

'  Die  !  no,  not  if  you  take  care  of  yourself  and  do 
what  you  are  told.' 

1  But  tell  me,  Dr.  Reed/  Alice  asked.  '  You  can 
tell  me  the  truth.' 

c  She'll  get  well  if  she  takes  care  of  herself.  It 
is  impossible  to  say.  No  one  can  predict  the  turn 
pneumonia  will  take.' 

'  Pneumonia  !     What  is  that  ?' 

'  Congestion  of  the  lungs,  or  rather  an  advanced 
stage  of  it.  It  is  more  common  in  men  than  in 
women,  and  it  is  the  consequence  of  long  exposure 
to  wet  and  cold.' 

'  Is  it  very  dangerous  ?' 

'Very;  and  now  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  all- 
important  that  the  temperature  of  the  room  should 
not  be  allowed  to  vary.  I  attended  a  case  of  it 
some  three  or  four  miles  from  here,  but  the  damp 
of  the  cabin  was  so  great  that  it  was  impossible  to 
combat  the  disease.  The  cottage,  or  rather  hovel, 
was  built  on  the  edge  of  a  soft  spongy  bog,  and  so 
wet  was  it  that  the  woman  had  to  sweep  the  water 
every  morning  from  the  floor,  where  it  collected  in 
great  pools.  I  am  now  going  to  visit  an  evicted 
family,  who  are  living  in  a  partially  roofed  shed 
fenced  up  by  the  roadside.  The  father  is  down  with 
fever,  and  lies  shivering,  with  nothing  to  drink  but 
cold  water.  His  wife  told  me  that  last  week  it 
rained  so  heavily  that  she  had  to  get  up  three  times 
in  the  night  to  wring  the  sheets  out.' 

'  And  why  were  they  evicted  ?' 

'  Oh,  that  is  a  long  story ;  but  it  is  a  singularly 


314  MUSLIN 

characteristic  one.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  an 
idle  fellow ;  he  got  into  difficulties  and  owed  his 
landlord  three  years'  rent.  Then  he  got  into  bad 
hands,  and  was  prevented  from  coming  to  terms  with 
his  landlord.  There  was  a  lot  of  jobbing  going  on 
between  the  priest  and  the  village  grocer,  and 
finally  it  was  arranged  that  the  latter  should  pay  oft 
the  existing  debt  if  the  landlord  could  be  forced 
into  letting  him  the  farm  at  a  "  fair  rent,"  that  is 
to  say,  thirty  per  cent,  reduction  on  the  old  rent.  In 
recognition  of  his  protecting  influence,  the  priest 
was  to  take  a  third  of  the  farm  off  the  grocer's 
hands,  and  the  two  were  then  to  conjointly  rack- 
rent  poor  Murphy  for  the  remaining  third  portion, 
which  he  would  be  allowed  to  retain  for  a  third  of 
the  original  rent ;  but  the  National  League  heard  of 
their  little  tricks,  and  now  the  farm  is  boycotted, 
and  Murphy  is  dying  in  the  ditch  for  the  good  of 
his  counthry.' 

'  I  thought  boycotting  was  ended,  that  the  League 
had  lost  all  power.' 

'  It  has  and  it  hasn't.  Sometimes  a  man  takes  a 
farm  and  keeps  it  in  defiance  of  his  neighbours ; 
sometimes  they  hunt  him  out  of  it.  It  is  hard  to 
come  to  a  conclusion,  for  when  in  one  district  you 
hear  of  rents  being  paid  and  boycotted  farms  letting 
freely,  in  another,  only  a  few  miles  away,  the  land- 
lords are  giving  reductions,  and  there  are  farms  lying 
waste  that  no  one  dare  look  at.  In  my  opinion  the 
fire  is  only  smouldering,  and  when  the  Coercion  Act 
expires  the  old  organization  will  rise  up  as  strong 
and  as  triumphant  as  before.  This  is  a  time  of 
respite  for  both  parties.' 


MUSLIN  315 

The  conversation  then  came  to  a  sudden  pause. 
Alice  felt  it  would  be  out  of  place  for  her  to  speak 
her  sympathies  for  the  Nationalistic  cause,  and  she 
knew  it  would  be  unfair  to  lead  the  doctor  to  express 
his.  So  at  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  during  which 
each  divined  the  other's  thoughts,  she  said : 

'  I  suppose  you  see  a  great  deal  of  the  poor  and 
the  miseries  they  endure  ?' 

'  I  have  had  good  opportunities  ot  studying  them. 
Before  I  came  here  I  spent  ten  years  in  the  poorest 
district  in  Donegal.  I  am  sure  there  wasn't  a  gentle- 
man's house  within  fifteen  miles  of  me.' 
'  And  didn't  you  feel  very  lonely  ?' 
e  Yes,  I  did,  but  one  gets  so  used  to  solitude  that 
to  return  to  the  world,  after  having  lived  long  in 
the  atmosphere  of  one's  own  thoughts,  is  painful. 
The  repugnance  that  grows  on  those  who  live  alone 
to  hearing  their  fellow-creatures  express  their  ideas 
is  very  remarkable.  It  must  be  felt  to  be  under- 
stood ;  and  I  have  often  wondered  how  it  was  that 
I  never  met  it  in  a  novel.' 

e  It  would  be  very  difficult  to  write.  Do  you  ever 
read  fiction  ?' 

'  Yes,  and  enjoy  it.     In  my  little  home  amid  the 
northern  bogs,  I  used  to  look  forward  when  I  had 
finished  writing,  to  reading  a  story.' 
1  What  were  you  writing  ?' 
'A  book.' 

fA  book!'  exclaimed  Alice,  looking  suddenly 
pleased  and  astonished. 

'  Yes,  but  not  a  work  of  fiction — I  am  afraid  I  am 
too  prosaic  an  individual  for  that — a  medical  work.' 
'  And  have  you  finished  your  book  ?' 


316  MUSLIN 

e  Yes,  it  is  finished,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  it  is  in 
the  hands  of  a  London  publisher.  We  have  not  yet 
agreed  about  the  price,  but  I  hope  and  believe  that, 
directly  and  indirectly,  it  will  lead  to  putting  me 
into  a  small  London  practice.' 

'  And  then  you  will  leave  us  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  so.  There  are  many  friends  I  shall 
miss — that  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  leave,  but ' 

'  Oh,  of  course  it  would  not  do  to  miss  such  a 
chance.' 

They  fell  to  discussing  the  patient,  and  when  the 
doctor  left,  Alice  proceeded  to  carry  out  his  in- 
structions concerning  the  patient,  and,  these  being 
done,  she  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  continued 
her  thoughts  of  him  with  a  sense  of  pleasure.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  always  liked  him.  Yes, 
it  was  a  liking  that  dated  as  far  back  as  the 
spinsters'  ball  at  Ballinasloe.  He  was  the  only 
man  there  in  whom  she  had  taken  the  slightest 
interest.  They  were  sitting  together  on  the  stairs 
when  that  poor  fellow  was  thrown  down  and  had  his 
leg  broken.  She  remembered  how  she  had  enjoyed 
meeting  him  at  tennis-parties,  and  how  often  she 
had  walked  away  with  him  from  the  players  through 
the  shrubberies  ;  and  above  all  she  could  not  forget 
— it  was  a  long  sweet  souvenir — the  beautiful  after- 
noon she  had  spent  with  him,  sitting  on  the  rock, 
the  day  of  the  picnic  at  Kinvarra  Castle.  She  had 
forgotten,  or  rather  she  had  never  noticed,  that  he 
was  a  short,  thick-set,  middle-aged  man,  that  he  wore 
mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  that  his  lips  were  over- 
hung by  a  long  dark  moustache.  His  manners  were 
those  of  an  unpolished  and  somewhat  commonplac 


MUSLIN  317 

man.  But  while  she  thought  of  his  grey  eyes  her 
heart  was  thrilled  with  gladness,  and  as  she  dreamed 
of  his  lonely  life  of  labour  and  his  ultimate  hopes 
of  success,  all  her  old  sorrows  and  fears  seemed  to 
have  evaporated.  Then  suddenly  and  with  the  un- 
expectedness of  an  apparition  the  question  presented 
itself:  Did  she  like  him  better  than  Harding  ?  Alice 
shrank  from  the  unpleasantness  of  the  thought,  and 
did  not  force  herself  to  answer  it,  but  busied  herself 
with  attending  to  her  sister's  wants. 

While  the  dawn  of  Alice's  happiness,  Olive  lay 
suffering  in  all  the  dire  humility  of  the  flesh.  Hourly 
her  breathing  grew  shorter  and  more  hurried,  her 
cough  more  frequent,  and  the  expectoration  that 
accompanied  it  darker  and  thicker  in  colour.  The 
beautiful  eyes  were  now  turgid  and  dull,  the  lids 
hung  heavily  over  a  line  of  filmy  blue,  and  a  thick 
scaly  layer  of  bloody  tenacious  mucus  persistently 
accumulated  and  covered  the  tiny  and  once  almost 
jewel-like  teeth.  For  three  or  four  days  these 
symptoms  knew  no  abatement ;  and  it  was  over 
this  prostrated  body,  weakened  and  humiliated  by 
illness,  that  Alice  and  Dr.  Reed  read  love  in  each 
other's  eyes,  and  it  was  about  this  poor  flesh  that 
their  hands  were  joined  as  they  lifted  Olive  out  of 
the  recumbent  position  she  had  slipped  into,  and 
built  up  the  bowed-in  pillows.  And  as  it  had  once 
been  all  Olive  in  Brookfield,  it  was  now  all  Alice ; 
the  veil  seemed  suddenly  to  have  slipped  from  all 
eyes,  and  the  exceeding  worth  of  this  plain  girl  was 
at  last  recognized.  Mrs.  Barton's  presence  at  the 
bedside  did  not  soothe  the  sufferer  ;  she  grew  rest- 
less and  demanded  her  sister.     And  the  illness  con- 


318  MUSLIN 

tinued,  her  life  in  the  balance  till  the  eighth  day. 
It  was  then  that  she  took  a  turn  for  the  better ;  the 
doctor  pronounced  her  out  of  danger,  and  two  days 
after  she  lay  watching  Alice  and  Dr.  Reed  talking 
in  the  window.  '  Were  they  talking  about  her  ?' 
she  asked  herself.  She  did  not  think  they  were.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  each  was  interested  in  the  other. 
'  Laying  plans/  the  sick  girl  said  to  herself,  '  for 
themselves.'  At  these  words  her  senses  dimmed, 
and  when  she  awoke  she  had  some  difficulty  in  re- 
membering what  she  had  seen. 


XXVII 

'Ah,  ce  cher  Milord,  comme  il  est  beau,  comme  il  est 
par  fait  f  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barton,  as  she  led  him  to 
his  chair  and  poured  out  his  glass  of  sherry. 

But  there  was  a  gloom  on  his  face  which  laughter 
and  compliments  failed  for  a  moment  to  dissipate — 
at  last  he  said  : 

cAh,  Mrs.  Barton,  Mrs.  Barton!  if  I  hadn't  this 
little  retreat  to  take  refuge  in,  to  hide  myself  in, 
during  some  hours  of  the  day,  I  should  not  be  able 
to  bear  up — Brookfield  has  prolonged  my  life  for ' 

1 1  cannot  allow  such  sad  thoughts  as  these/  said 
Mrs.  Barton  laughing,  and  waving  her  white  hands. 
(  Who  has  been  teasing  not  re  cher  Milord  ?  What 
have  dreadful  Lady  Jane  and  terrible  Lady  Sarah 
been  doing  to  him  ?' 

'  I  shall  never  forget  this  morning,  no,  not  if  I 
lived  to  a  thousand,'  the  old  gentleman  murmured 
plaintively.     '  Oh,  the   scenes — the    scenes    I    have 


MUSLIN  319 

been  through  !     Cecilia,  as  I  told  you  yesterday,  has 
been  filling  the  house  with  rosaries  and  holywater- 
fonts  ;   Jane  and  Sarah  have   been  breaking  these, 
and    the   result    has    been    tears   and    upbraidings. 
Last  night  at  dinner  I  don't  really  know  what  they 
didn't  say  to  each  other ;   and  then  the  two  elder 
ones  fell  upon  me  and  declared  that  it  was  all  my 
fault,  that  I  ought  never  to  have  sent  my  daughter 
to  a  Catholic  convent.     I  was  obliged  to  shut  myself 
up  in  the  study  and  lock  the  door.    Then  this  morn- 
ing, when  I  thought  it  was  all  over,  it  began  again 
worse  than  ever  ;  and  then  in  the  middle  of  it  all, 
when  Jane  asked  Cecilia  how  many  Gods  there  were 
in  the  roll  of  bread   she  was   eating  if  the  priest 
were  to  bless  it — if  a  Papist  wasn't  one  who  couldn't 
worship  God  till  somebody  had  turned  Him  into  a 
biscuit — a   most   injudicious    observation,   I   said    so 
at  the  time,  and  I  must  apologize  to  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.   Barton,  for  repeating  it,  but   I    am   really  so 
upset    that    I    scarcely   know   what    I    am    saying. 
Well,  Jane  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  Cecilia  over- 
threw  the    teacups   and    said    she  wasn't   going   to 
stay  in  the  house  to  hear  her  religion  insulted,  and 
without  another  word  she  walked  down  to  the  parish 
priest  and  was  baptized  a  Catholic  ;  nor  is  that  all. 
She  returned  with  a  scapular  round  her  neck,  a  rosary 
about  her  waist,  and  a  Pope's  medal  in  her  hand.     I 
really  thought  Jane  and  Sarah  would  have  fainted  ; 
indeed  I  am  sure  they  would  have  fainted  if  Cecilia 
hadn't  declared  that  she  was  going  to  pack  up  her 
things    and    return    at    once    to    St.   Leonards    and 
become  a  nun.     Such  an  announcement  as  this  was, 
of  course,  far  beyond  fainting,  and  .   .  .  but  no,  I 


320  MUSLIN 

will  not  attempt  to  describe  it,  but  I  can  assure  you 
I  was  very  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  house.' 

'  Cecilia  going  to  be  a  nun  ;  oh,  I  am  so  glad  !' 
exclaimed  Olive.  '  It  is  far  the  best  thing  she  could 
do,  for  she  couldn't  hope  to  be  married.' 

'  Olive,  Olive  !'  said  Mrs.  Barton,  '  you  shouldn't 
speak  so  openly.  We  should  always  consider  the 
religious  prejudices  of  others.  Of  course,  as  Catholics 
we  must  be  glad  to  hear  of  anyone  joining  the  true 
Church,  but  we  should  remember  that  Milord  is  going 
to  lose  his  daughter.' 

( I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barton,  I  have  no 
prejudices.  I  look  upon  all  religions  as  equally 
good  and  equally  bad,  but  to  be  forced  to  live  in  a 
perpetual  discussion  in  which  teacups  are  broken, 
concerning  scapulars,  bacon  and  meal  shops,  and  a 
school  which,  putting  aside  the  question  of  expense, 
makes  me  hated  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  regard  as 
intolerable ;  and  when  I  go  home  this  evening,  I 
shall  tell  Jane  that  the  school  must  be  put  down  or 
carried  on  in  a  less  aggressive  way.  I  assure  you  I 
have  no  wish  to  convert  the  people  ;  they  are  paying 
their  rents  very  well  now,  and  I  think  it  absurd  to 
upset  them ;  and  the  fact  of  having  received  Cecilia 
into  the  Church  might  incline  the  priest  very  much 
towards  us.' 

'  And  Cecilia  will  be  so  happy  in  that  beautiful 
convent!'  suggested  Mrs.  Barton. 

'  Cest  le  genie  du  Catkolicisme  de  nous  debarrasser 
desjilles  laides.' 

And  upon  this  expression  of  goodwill  towards  the 
Church  of  Rome  Cecilia's  future  life  was  discussed 
with  much  amiability.     Mrs.  Barton  said  she  would 


MUSLIN  321 

make  a  sweet  little  nun ;  Olive  declaimed  that  she 
would  certainly  go  to  St.  Leonard's  to  see  her  '  pro- 
fessed ' ;  and  Milord's  description  of  Lady  Sarah's 
and  Lady  Jane's  ill-humour  was  considered  very 
amusing,  and  just  as  he  was  about  to  recount  some 
new  incident — one  that  had  escaped  his  memory  till 
then — the  door  opened  and  the  servant  announced 
Dr.  Reed. 

f  Now,  what  can  he  want  ?  Olive  is  quite  well. 
He  looks  at  her  tongue  and  feels  her  pulse.  How 
do  you  do,  Dr.  Reed  ?  Here  is  your  patient,  whom 
you  will  find  in  the  best  health  and  spirits.' 

As  he  was  about  to  reply,  Alice  came  into  the 
room,  and  she  tried  to  carry  on  the  conversation 
naturally.  But  the  silence  of  Mrs.  Barton  and 
Milord  made  this  difficult ;  Dr.  Reed  was  not  a 
ready  talker,  and  this  morning  his  replies  were  more 
than  ever  awkward  and  constrained.  At  last  it 
dawned  on  Alice  that  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her 
alone  ;  and  in  answer  to  a  remark  he  had  made  con- 
cerning the  fever  dens  in  Gort  she  said  : 

1 1  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question  or  two  about 
typhoid  fever,  Dr.  Reed ;  one  of  my  heroines  is  going 
to  die  of  it,  and  I  should  like  to  avoid  medical 
impossibilities.     May  I  show  you  the  passage  ?' 

'  Certainly,  Miss  Barton ;  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
help  you — if  I  can.' 

As  soon  as  Alice  left  the  room  to  fetch  her  manu- 
script the  doctor  hurriedly  bade  his  patient,  Milord, 
and  Mrs.  Barton,  good-bye. 

1  Aren't  you  going  to  wait  to  see  Alice  ?'  Mrs. 
Barton  asked. 

'  I   have  to  speak  to  the    boy  in  charge   of  my 
x 


322  MUSLIN 

car ;  I  shall  see   Miss   Barton   as  she  comes  down- 
stairs.' 

Mrs.  Barton  looked  as  if  she  thought  this  arrange- 
ment not  a  little  singular,  but  she  said  nothing ;  and 
when  Alice  came  running  downstairs  with  a  roll  of 
MSS.  in  her  hand,  she  attempted  to  explain  her 
difficulty  to  the  doctor.  He  made  a  feeble  attempt 
to  listen  to  the  passage  she  read  aloud  to  him ;  and 
when  their  eyes  met  across  the  paper  she  saw  he 
was  going  to  propose  to  her. 

1  Will  you  walk  down  the  drive  with  me  ?  and 
we  will  talk  of  that  as  we  go  along.' 

Her  hat  was  on  the  hall-table  ;  she  took  it  up,  and 
in  silence  walked  with  him  out  on  the  gravel. 

'  Will  I  put  the  harse  up,  sor  ?'  cried  the  boy  from 
the  outside  car. 

'No  ;  follow  me  down  the  avenue.' 
It  was  a  wild  autumn  evening,  full  of  wind  and 
leaves.  The  great  green  pasture-lands,  soaked  and 
soddened  with  rain,  rolled  their  monotonous  green 
turf  to  the  verge  of  the  blown  beech-trees,  about 
which  the  rooks  drifted  in  picturesque  confusion. 
Now  they  soared  like  hawks,  or  on  straightened 
wings  were  carried  down  a  furious  gust  across  the 
tumultuous  waves  of  upheaved  yellow,  and  past  the 
rift  of  cold  crimson  that  is  tossed  like  a  banner 
through  the  shadows  of  evening. 

'  I  came  here  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  away  ; 
that  I   am  leaving  Ireland  for  ever.      I've    bought 
the  practice  I  spoke  to  you  of  in  Notting  Hill.' 
'  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !' 

'  Thank  you  !  But  there  is  another  and  more 
important  matler  on  which  I  should  like  to  speak  to 


MUSLIN  323 

you.  For  a  long  time  back  I  had  resolved  to  leave 
Ireland  a  sad  or  an  entirely  happy  man.  Which 
shall  it  be  ?  You  are  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved — 
will  you  be  my  wife  ?' 

<  Yes,  I  will." 

'  I  was  afraid  to  ask  you  before.  But/  he  added, 
sighing,  '  I  shan't  be  able  to  give  you  a  home  like 
the  one  you  are  leaving.  We  shall  have  to  be  very 
economical  ;  we  shall  not  have  more  than  three 
hundred  a  year  to  live  upon.  Will  you  be  satisfied 
with  that  ?' 

'  I  hope,  indeed — I  am  sure  we  shall  get  on  very 
well.  You  forget  that  I  can  do  something  to  keep 
myself,'  she  added,  smiling.  c  I  have  two  or  three 
orders.' 

She  passed  her  arm  through  Dr.  Reed's  ;  and  as 
he  unfolded  his  plans  to  her,  he  held  her  hand 
warmly  and  affectionately  in  his  :  and  as  the  twilight 
drifted  it  was  wrapped  like  a  veil  about  them.  The 
rooks  in  great  flitting  flocks  passed  over  their  heads, 
the  tempestuous  crimson  of  the  sky  had  been  hurled 
further  away,  and  only  the  form  of  the  grey  horse, 
that  the  boy  had  allowed  to  graze,  stood  out  dis- 
tinctly in  the  gloom  that  descended  upon  the  earth. 


XXVIII 

On  the  very  first  opportunity  she  could  find  Alice 
told  her  mother  that  Dr.  Reed  had  proposed  to 
her,  and  that  she  had  accepted  him.  Mrs.  Barton 
said  it  was  disgraceful,  and  that  she  would  never 
hear  of  such  a  marriage ;  and  when  the  doctor  called 


.324  MUSLIN 

next  day  she  acquainted  him  with  her  views  on  the 
subject.  She  told  him  he  had  very  improperly 
taken  advantage  of  his  position  to  make  love  to  her 
daughter  ;  she  really  didn't  know  how  he  could  ever 
have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  a  match  was 
possible,  and  that  for  the  future  his  visits  must  cease 
at  Brookfield.  And  when  Alice  heard  what  had 
passed  between  Dr.  Reed  and  her  mother  she 
wrote,  assuring  him  that  her  feelings  towards  him 
would  remain  uninfluenced  by  anything  that  anyone 
might  say.  All  the  same,  it  might  be  as  well, 
having  regard  for  what  had  happened,  that  the 
marriage  should  take  place  with  the  least  possible 
delay. 

She  took  this  letter  down  to  the  post-office  her- 
self, and  when  she  returned  she  entered  the  drawing- 
room  and  told  Mrs.  Barton  what  she  had  done. 

'  I  wish  you  had  shown  me  the  letter  before  you 
sent  it.  There  is  nothing  we  need  advice  about  so 
much  as  a  letter.' 

'  Yes,  mother,'  replied  Alice,  deceived  by  the 
gentleness  of  Mrs.  Barton's  manner;  f  but  we  seemed 
to  hold  such  widely  different  views  on  this  matter 
that  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  use  in  discuss- 
ing it.' 

'  Mother  and  daughter  should  never  hold  different 
views ;  my  children's  interests  are  my  interests — 
what  interests  have  I  now  but  theirs  ?' 

'  Oh,  mother !  Then  you  will  consent  to  this 
marriage?' 

Mrs.  Barton's  face  always  changed  expression 
before  a  direct  question.  '  My  dear,  I  would  con- 
sent to  anything  that  would  make  you  happy ;  but 


MUSLIN  325 

it  seems  to  me  impossible  that  you  could  be  happy 
with  Dr.  Reed.  I  wonder  how  you  could  like  him. 
You  do  not  know — I  mean,  you  do  not  realize  what 
the  intimacies  of  married  life  are.  They  are  often 
hard  to  put  up  with,  no  matter  who  the  man  may 
be,  but  with  one  who  is  not  a  gentleman ' 

'  But,  mother,  Dr.  Reed  seems  to  me  to  be  in 
every  way  a  gentleman.  Who  is  there  more  gentle- 
manly in  the  country  ?  I  am  sure  that  from  every 
point  of  view  he  is  preferable  to  Mr.  Adair  or  Sir 
Charles,  or  Sir  Richard  or  Mr.  Ryan,  or  his  cousin, 
Mr.  Lynch.' 

1  My  darling  child,  I  would  sooner  see  you  laid 
in  your  coffin  than  married  to  either  Mr.  Ryan  or 
Mr.  Lynch ;  but  that  is  not  the  question.  It  is, 
whether  you  had  not  better  wait  for  a  few  years 
before  you  throw  yourself  away  on  such  a  man  as 
Dr.  Reed.  I  know  that  you  have  been  greatly 
tried ;  nothing  is  so  trying  to  a  girl  as  to  come  out 
with  her  sister  who  is  the  belle  of  the  season,  and 
I  must  say  you  have  shown  a  great  deal  of  pluck  ; 
and  perhaps  I  haven't  been  considerate  enough.  But 
I,  too,  have  had  my  disappointments — Olive's  affairs 
did  not,  as  you  know,  turn  out  as  well  as  I  had 
expected,  and  to  see  you  now  marry  one  who  is  so 
much  beneath  us !' 

'  Mother,  dear,  he  is  not  beneath  us.  There  is  no 
one  who  has  earned  his  career  but  Dr.  Reed ;  he 
owes  nothing  to  anyone ;  he  has  done  it  all  by  his 
own  exertions  ;  and  now  he  has  bought  a  London 
practice.' 

'  Then  you  do  not  love  him ;  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of 
settling  yourself  in  life  that  you  are  marrying  him  ?' 


326  MUSLIN 

'  I  respect  Dr.  Reed  more  than  any  man  living ;  I 
bear  for  him  a  most  sincere  affection,  and  I  hope 
to  make  him  a  good  wife.' 

(  You  don't  love  him  as  you  did  Mr.  Harding  ?  If 
you  will  only  wait  you  may  get  him.  The  tenants 
are  paying  their  rents  very  well,  and  I  am  thinking 
of  going  to  London  in  the  spring.' 

The  girl  winced  at  the  mention  of  Harding,  but 
she  looked  into  her  mother's  soft  appealing  brown 
eyes  ;  and,  reading  clearer  than  she  had  ever  read 
before  all  the  adorable  falseness  that  lay  therein, 
she  answered  : 

f  I  do  not  want  to  marry  Mr.  Harding ;  I  am 
engaged  to  Dr.  Reed,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  give 
him  up.' 

This  answer  was  given  so  firmly  that  Mrs.  Barton 
lost  her  temper  for  a  moment,  and  she  said  : 

'  And  do  you  really  know  what  this  Dr.  Reed 
originally  was  ?  Lord  Dungory  is  dining  here 
to-night ;  he  knows  all  about  Dr.  Reed's  ante- 
cedents, and  I  am  sure  he  will  be  horrified  when  he 
hears  that  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  him.' 

1 1  cannot  recognize  Lord  Dungory' s  right  to 
advise  me  on  any  course  I  may  choose  to  take,  and 
I  hope  he  will  have  the  good  taste  to  refrain  from 
speaking  to  me  of  my  marriage.' 

(  What  do  you  mean  ?  How  dare  you  speak  to 
me  like  that,  you  impertinent  girl !' 

'  1  am  not  impertinent,  mother,  and  I  hope  I  shall 
never  be  impertinent  to  you  ;  but  I  am  now  in  my 
twenty-fifth  year,  and  if  I  am  ever  to  judge  for 
myself,  I  must  do  so  now.' 

Alice  was  curiously  surprised  by  her  own  words  ;  it 


MUSLIN  327 

seemed  to  her  that  it  was  some  strange  woman,  and 
not  herself — not  the  old  self  with  whom  she  was 
intimately  acquainted — who  was  speaking.  Life  is 
full  of  these  epoch-marking  moments.  We  have 
all  at  some  given  time  experienced  the  sensation  of 
finding  ourselves  either  stronger  or  weaker  than  we 
had  ever  before  known  ourselves  to  be ;  Alice  now 
for  the  first  time  felt  that  she  was  speaking  and 
acting  in  her  own  individual  right ;  and  the  know- 
ledge as  it  thrilled  through  her  consciousness  was 
almost  a  physical  pleasure.  But  notwithstanding 
the  certitude  that  never  left  her  of  the  propriety 
of  her  conduct,  and  the  equally  ever-present  senti- 
ment of  the  happiness  that  awaited  her,  she  suffered 
much  during  the  next  ten  days,  and  she  was  fre- 
quently in  tears.  Cecilia  had  started  for  St.  Leonards 
without  coming  to  wish  her  good-bye,  and  the  cruel 
sneers,  insinuations  of  all  kinds  against  her  and 
against  Dr.  Reed,  which  Mrs.  Barton  never  missed 
an  occasion  of  using,  wounded  the  girl  so  deeply, 
that  it  was  only  at  the  rarest  intervals  that  she  left 
her  room — when  she  walked  to  the  post  with  a  letter, 
when  the  luncheon  or  dinner  bell  rang.  Why  she 
should  be  thus  persecuted,  Alice  was  unable  to 
determine ;  and  why  her  family  did  not  hail  with 
delight  this  chance  of  getting  rid  of  a  plain  girl, 
whose  prospects  were  limited,  was  difficult  to  say ; 
nor  could  the  girl  ari'ive  at  any  notion  of  the  pleasure 
or  profit  it  might  be  to  anyone  that  she  should  waste 
her  life  amid  chaperons  and  gossip,  instead  of  taking 
her  part  in  the  world's  work.  And  yet  this  seemed 
to  be  her  mother's  idea.  She  did  not  hesitate  to 
threaten  that  she  would  neither  attend  herself,  nor 


328  MUSLIN 

allow  Mr.  Barton  to  attend  the  ceremony.  Alice 
might  meet  Dr.  Reed  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  and 
be  married  as  best  she  could.  Alice  appealed  to  her 
father  against  this  decision,  but  she  soon  had  to 
renounce  the  hope  of  obtaining  any  definite  answer. 
He  had  been  previously  told  that  if  he  attempted 
any  interference,  his  supply  of  paints,  brushes,  can- 
vases, and  guitar-strings  would  be  cut  off,  and,  as  he 
was  at  present  deeply  engaged  on  a  new  picture  of 
Julius  Caesar  overturning  the  Altars  of  the  Drtiids,  he 
hesitated  before  the  alternatives  offered  to  him.  He 
spoke  with  much  affection  ;  he  regretted  that  Alice 
could  not  see  her  way  to  marrying  somebody  whom 
her  mother  could  approve  !  He  explained  the  diffi- 
culties of  his  position,  and  the  necessity  of  his 
turning  something  out — seeing  what  he  really  could 
do  before  the  close  of  the  year.  Alice  was  dis- 
appointed, and  bitterly,  but  she  bore  her  disappoint- 
ment bravely,  and  she  wrote  to  Dr.  Reed,  telling  him 
what  had  occurred,  and  proposing  to  meet  him  on 
a  certain  day  at  the  Parish  Church,  where  Father 
Shannon  would  marry  them  ;  and,  that  if  he  refused, 
they  would  proceed  to  Dublin,  and  be  married  at 
the  Registry  Office.  In  a  way  Alice  would  have 
preferred  this  latter  course,  but  her  good  sense 
warned  her  against  the  uselessness  of  offering  any 
too  violent  opposition  to  the  opinions  of  the  world. 
And  so  it  was  arranged ;  and  sad,  weary,  and 
wretched,  Alice  lingered  through  the  last  few  days 
of  the  life  that  had  always  been  to  her  one  of 
humiliation,  and  which  now  towards  its  close  had 
quieted  to  one  of  intense  pain. 

The  Brennans  had  promised  to  meet  her  in  the 


MUSLIN  329 

chapel,  and  one  day,  as  she  was  sitting  by  her 
window,  she  saw  May  in  all  the  glory  of  her  copper 
hair,  drive  a  tandem  up  to  the  door.  This  girl 
threw  the  reins  to  the  groom,  and  rushed  to  her 
friend. 

'  And  how  do  you  do,  Alice,  and  how  well  you  are 
looking,  and  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you.  I  would 
have  come  before,  only  my  leader  was  coughing  and 
I  couldn't  take  him  out.  Oh,  I  was  so  wild  ;  it  is 
always  like  that ;  nothing  is  so  disappointing  as 
horses  ;  whenever  you  especially  require  them  they 
are  laid  up,  and  you  can't  imagine  the  difficulty  I 
had  to  get  him  along ;  I  must  really  get  another 
leader ;  he  was  trying  to  turn  round  the  Avhole 
way — if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  whip.  I  took  blood 
out  of  him  three  times  running.  But  I  know  you 
don't  care  anything  about  horses,  and  I  want  to  hear 
about  this  marriage.  I  am  so  glad,  so  pleased,  but 
tell  me,  do  you  like  him  ?  He  seems  a  very  nice 
sort  of  man,  you  know,  a  man  that  would  make  a 
woman  happy.  ...  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy 
with  him,  but  it  is  dreadful  to  think  we  are  going 
to  lose  you.  I  shall,  I  know,  be  running  over  to 
London  on  purpose  to  see  you  ;  but  tell  me,  what 
I  want  to  know  is,  do  you  like  him  ?  Would  you 
believe  it,  I  never  once  suspected  there  was  anything 
between  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  my  dear  May,'  Alice  replied  smiling,  '  I  do 
like  Edward  Reed  ;  nor  do  I  think  that  I  should 
ever  like  any  other  man  half  as  much  :  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  him,  and  where  there  is  not 
confidence  there  cannot  be  love.  He  has  bought 
a  small  practice   in  Notting   Hill,  which  with   care 


330  MUSLIN 

and  industry  he  hopes  may  be  worked  up  into  a 
substantial  business.  We  shall  be  very  poor  at  first, 
but  we  shall  be  able  to  make  both  ends  meet.' 

'  I  can  see  it  all ;  a  little  suburban  semi-detached 
house,  with  green  Venetian  blinds,  a  small  mahogany 
sideboard,  and  a  clean  capped  maid-servant ;  and  in 
the  drawing-room  you  won't  have  a  piano — you 
don't  care  for  music,  but  you'll  have  some  basket 
chairs,  and  small  bookcases,  and  a  tea-table  with 
tea-cakes  at  five — oh,  won't  you  look  quiet  and 
grave  at  that  tea-table.  But  tell  me,  it  is  all  over 
the  county  that  Mrs.  Barton  won't  hear  of  this 
marriage,  and  that  she  won't  allow  your  father  to 
go  to  the  chapel  to  give  you  away.  It  is  a  shame, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  what  parents  have 
to  do  with  our  marriages,  do  you  ?' 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  May  continued 
the  conversation,  and  with  vehemence  she  passed 
from  one  subject  to  another  utterly  disconnected 
without  a  transitional  word  of  explanation.  She 
explained  how  tiresome  it  was  to  sit  at  home  of 
an  evening  listening  to  Mrs.  Gould  bemoaning  the 
state  of  the  country ;  she  spoke  of  her  terrier,  and 
this  led  up  to  a  critical  examination  of  the  good 
looks  of  several  of  the  officers  stationed  at  Gort ; 
then  she  alluded  to  the  last  meet  of  the  hounds, 
and  she  described  the  big  wall  she  and  Mrs.  Manly 
had  jumped  together ;  a  new  hat  and  an  old  skirt 
that  she  had  lately  done  up  came  in  for  a  passing 
remark,  and,  with  an  abundance  of  laughter,  May 
gave  an  account  of  a  luncheon-party  at  Lord  Ross- 
hill's  ;  and,  apparently  verbatim,  she  told  what  each 
of  the  five  Honourable  Miss  Gores  had  said  about 


MUSLIN  331 

the  marriage.     Then  growing  suddenly  serious,  she 
said : 

•  It  is  all  very  well  to  laugh,  but,  when  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  it  is  very  sad  indeed  to  see 
seven  human  lives  wasting  away,  a  whole  family 
of  girls  eating  their  hearts  out  in  despair,  having 
nothing  to  do  but  to  pop  about  from  one  tennis- 
party  to  another,  and  chatter  to  each  other  or  their 
chaperons  of  this  girl  and  that  who  does  not  seem 
to  be  getting  married.  You  are  very  lucky  indeed, 
Alice — luckier  than  you  think  you  are,  and  you  are 
quite  right  to  stick  out  and  do  the  best  you  can  for 
yourself  in  spite  of  what  your  people  say.  It  is  all 
very  well  for  them  to  talk,  but  they  don't  know 
what  we  suffer :  we  are  not  all  made  alike,  and  the 
wants  of  one  are  not  the  wants  of  another.  I  dare  say 
you  never  thought  much  about  that  sort  of  thing ; 
but  as  I  say,  we  are  not  all  made  alike.  Every 
woman,  or  nearly  every  one,  wants  a  husband  and  a 
home,  and  it  is  only  natural  she  should,  and  if  she 
doesn't  get  them  the  temptations  she  has  to  go 
through  are  something  frightful,  and  if  we  make  the 
slightest  slip  the  whole  world  is  down  upon  us.  I 
can  talk  to  you,  Alice,  because  you  know  what  I 
have  gone  through.  You  have  been  a  very  good 
friend  to  me — had  it  not  been  for  you  I  don't 
know  what  would  have  become  of  me.  You  didn't 
reproach  me,  you  were  kind  and  had  pity  for  me ; 
you  are  a  sensible  person,  and  I  dare  say  you 
understood  that  I  wasn't  entirely  to  blame.  And  I 
wasn't  entirely  to  blame  ;  the  circumstances  we  girls 
live  under  are  not  just — no,  they  are  not  just.  We 
are  told  that  we  must  marry  a  man  with  at  least  a 


332  MUSLIN 

thousand  a  year,  or  remain  spinsters  ;  well,  I  should 
like  to  know  where  the  men  are  who  have  a  thousand 
a  year,  and  some  of  us  can't  remain  spinsters.  Oh  ! 
you  are  very  lucky  indeed  to  have  found  a  husband, 
and  to  be  going  away  to  a  home  of  your  own.  I 
wish  I  were  as  lucky  as  you,  Alice,  indeed  I  do, 
for  then  there  would  be  no  excuse,  and  I  could  be  a 
good  woman.  You  won't  hate  me  too  much,  will 
you,  Alice  ?  I  have  made  a  lot  of  good  resolutions, 
and  they  shall  be  kept  some  day.' 

1  Some  day  !     You  don't  mean  that  you  are  again 

'  No ;  but  I've  a  lover.  It  is  dreadfully  sinful, 
and  if  I  died  I  should  go  straight  to  hell.  I  know 
all  that.  I  wish  I  were  going  to  be  married,  like 
you  !  For  then  one  is  out  of  temptation.  Haven't 
you  a  kind  word  for  me  ?  Won't  you  kiss  me  and 
tell  me  you  don't  despise  me  ?' 

'  Of  course  I'll  kiss  you,  May;  and  I  am  sure  that 
one  of  these  days  you  will ' 

Alice  could  say  no  more ;  and  the  girls  kissed  and 
cried  in  each  other's  arms,  and  the  group  was  a 
sad  allegory  of  poor  humanity's  triumph,  and  poor 
humanity's  more  than  piteous  failures.  At  last  they 
went  downstairs,  and  in  the  hall  May  showed  Alice 
the  beautiful  wedding- present  she  had  bought  her, 
and  the  girl  did  not  say  that  she  had  sold  her  hunter 
to  buy  it. 


MUSLIN  333 


XXIX 


At  Brookfield  on  the  morning  of  December  3,  '84, 
the  rain  fell  persistently  in  the  midst  of  a  profound 
silence.  The  trees  stood  stark  in  the  grey  air  as  if 
petrified ;  there  was  not  wind  enough  to  waft  the 
falling  leaf ;  it  fell  straight  as  if  shotted. 

Not  a  living  thing  was  to  be  seen  except  the  wet 
sheep,  nor  did  anything  stir  either  within  or  with- 
out till  an  outside  car,  one  seat  overturned  to  save 
the  cushions  from  the  wet,  came  careering  up  the 
avenue.  There  was  a  shaggy  horse  and  a  wild- 
looking  driver  in  a  long,  shaggy  frieze  ulster.  Even 
now,  at  the  last  moment,  Alice  expected  the  drawing- 
room  door  to  open  and  her  mother  to  come  rushing 
out  to  wish  her  good-bye.  But  Mrs.  Barton  re- 
mained implacable,  and  after  laying  one  more  kiss 
on  her  sister's  pale  cheek,  Alice,  in  a  passionate  flood 
of  tears,  was  driven  away. 

In  streaming  mackintoshes,  and  leaning  on  drip- 
ping umbrellas,  she  found  her  husband,  and  Gladys 
and  Zoe  Brennan,  waiting  for  her  in  the  porch  of 
the  church. 

'  Did  you  ever  see  such  weather  ?'  said  Zoe. 

1  Isn't  it  dreadful  !'  said  Gladys. 

'  It  was  good  of  you  to  come,'  said  Alice. 

'  It  was  indeed  !'  said  the  bridegroom. 

'  What  nonsense  !'  said  Zoe.  '  We  were  only  too 
pleased ;  and  if  to-day  be  wet,  to-morrow  and  the 
next  and  the  next  will  be  sunshine. 

And  thanking  Zoe  inwardly  for  this  most  appro- 
priate remark,  the  party  ascended  the  church  toward 


334  MUSLIN 

the  altar-rails,  where  Father  Shannon  was  awaiting 
them.  Large,  pompous,  and  arrogant,  he  stood  on 
his  altar-steps,  and  his  hands  were  crossed  over  his 
portly  stomach.  On  either  side  of  him  the  plaster 
angels  bowed  their  heads  and  folded  their  wings. 
Above  him  the  great  chancel  window,  with  its  panes 
of  green  and  yellow  glass,  jarred  in  an  unutterable 
clash  of  colour ;  and  the  great  white  stare  of  the 
chalky  walls,  and  the  earthen  floor  with  its  tub  of 
holy  water,  and  the  German  prints  absurdly  repre- 
senting the  suffering  of  Christ,  bespoke  the  primi- 
tive belief,  the  coarse  superstition,  of  which  the 
place  was  an  immediate  symbol.  Alice  and  the 
doctor  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled,  but  their 
thoughts  were  too  firmly  fixed  on  the  actual  problem 
of  their  united  lives  to  wander  far  in  the  most  hidden 
ways  of  the  old  world's  psychical  extravagances. 
What  did  it  matter  to  them  what  absurd  usages  the 
place  they  were  in  was  put  to  ? — they,  at  least,  were 
only  making  use  of  it  as  they  might  of  any  other 
public  office — the  police-station,  where  inquiries  are 
made  concerning  parcels  left  in  cabs ;  the  Commis- 
sioner before  whom  an  affidavit  is  made.  And  it 
served  its  purpose  as  well  as  any  of  the  others  did 
theirs.  The  priest  joined  their  hands,  Edward  put 
the  ring  on  Alice's  finger,  and  the  usual  prayers  did 
no  harm  if  they  did  no  good  ;  and  having  signed 
their  names  in  the  register  and  bid  good-bye  to  the 
Miss  Brennans,  they  got  into  the  carriage,  man  and 
wife,  their  feet  set  for  ever  upon  one  path,  their 
interests  and  delights  melted  to  one  interest  and 
one  delight,  their  separate  troubles  merged  into  one 
trouble  that  might  or  might   not  be   made  lighter 


MUSLIN  335 

by  the  sharing  ;  and  penetrated  by  such  thoughts 
they  leaned  back  on  the  blue  cushions  of  the  carriage, 
happy,  and  yet  a  little  frightened. 

Rather  than  pass  three  hours  waiting  for  a  train 
at  the  little  station  of  Ardrahan,  it  had  been  arranged 
to  spend  the  time  driving  to  Athenry ;  and,  as  the 
carriage  rolled  through  the  deliquefying  country, 
the  eyes  of  the  nian  and  the  woman  rested  half 
fondly,  half  regretfully,  and  wholly  pitifully,  on  all 
the  familiar  signs  and  the  wild  landmarks  which 
during  so  many  years  had  grown  into  and  become 
part  of  the  texture  of  their  habitual  thought ;  on 
things  of  which  they  would  now  have  to  wholly 
divest  themselves,  and  remember  only  as  the  back- 
ground of  their  younger  lives.  Through  the  stream- 
ing glass  they  could  see  the  strip  of  bog ;  and 
the  half-naked  woman,  her  soaked  petticoat  cling- 
ing about  her  red  legs,  piling  the  wet  peat  into 
the  baskets  thrown  across  the  meagre  back  of  a 
starveling  ass.  And  farther  on  there  were  low-lying, 
swampy  fields,  and  between  them  and  the  road-side 
a  few  miserable  poplars  with  cabins  sunk  below  the 
dung-heaps,  and  the  meagre  potato-plots  lying  about 
them  ;  and  then,  as  these  are  passed,  there  are  green 
enclosures  full  of  fattening  kine,  and  here  and  there 
a  dismantled  cottage,  one  wall  still  black  with  the 
chimney's  smoke,  uttering  to  those  who  know  the 
country  a  tale  of  eviction.  Beyond  these,  beautiful 
plantations  sweep  along  the  crests  of  the  hills,  the 
pillars  of  a  Georgian  house  showing  at  the  end  of  a 
vista.  The  carriage  turned  up  a  narrow  road,  and 
our  travellers  came  upon  a  dozen  policemen  grouped 
round  a  roadside  cottage,  out  of  which  the  furniture 


336  MUSLIN 

had  just  been  thrown.  The  family  had  taken  shelter 
from  the  rain  under  a  hawthorn -tree,  and  the  agents 
were  consulting  with  their  bailiffs  if  it  would  not  be 
as  well  to  throw  down  the  walls  of  the  cottage. 

'  If  we  don't,'  one  of  the  men  said,  '  they  will  be 
back  again  as  soon  as  our  backs  are  turned,  and  our 
work  will  have  to  be  begun  all  over  again.' 

'Shocking,'  Alice  said,  fthat  an  eviction  scene 
should  be  our  last  glimpse  of  Ireland.  Let  us  pay 
the  rent  for  them,  Edward,'  and  as  she  spoke  the 
words  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind  that 
her  almsgiving  was  only  another  form  of  selfishness. 
She  wished  her  departure  to  be  associated  with  an 
act  of  kindness.  She  would  have  withdrawn  her 
request,  but  Edward's  hand  was  in  his  pocket  and 
he  was  asking  the  agent  how  much  the  rent  was. 
Five  years'  rent  was  owing — more  than  the  travellers 
had  in  their  purses. 

'  It  is  well  that  we  cannot  assist  them  to  remain 
here,'  said  Edward.  '  Circumstances  are  different, 
and  they  will  harden  ;  none  is  of  use  here.  Of  what 
use ' 

'  You  believe,  then,  that  this  misery  will  last  for 
ever  ?' 

'  Nothing  lasts  in  Ireland  but  the  priests.  And 
now  let  us  forget  Ireland,  as  many  have  done 
before  us.' 

***** 

Two  years  and  a  half  have  passed  away,  and  the 
suburban  home  predicted  by  May,  when  she  came 
to  bid  Alice  a  last  good-bye,  arises  before  the  reader 
in  all  its  yellow  paint  and  homely  vulgarity.  In 
this  suburb  we  find  the  ten-roomed  house  with  all 


MUSLIN  337 

its  special  characteristics — a  dining-room  window 
looking  upon  a  commodious  area  with  dust  and 
coal  holes.  The  drawing-room  has  two  windows,  and 
the  slender  balcony  is  generally  set  with  flower- 
boxes.  Above  that  come  the  two  windows  of  the 
best  bedroom  belonging  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  and  above 
that  again  the  windows  of  two  small  rooms,  respec- 
tively inhabited  by  the  eldest  son  and  daughter ; 
and  these  are  topped  by  the  mock  -  Elizabethan 
gable  which  enframes  the  tiny  window  of  a  servant's 
room.  Each  house  has  a  pair  of  trim  stone  pillars, 
the  crude  green  of  the  Venetian  blinds  jars  the 
cultured  eye,  and  even  the  tender  green  of  the 
foliage  in  the  crescent  seems  as  cheap  and  as 
common  as  if  it  had  been  bought — as  everything 
else  is  in  Ashbourne  Crescent — at  the  Stores.  But 
how  much  does  this  crescent  of  shrubs  mean  to 
the  neighbourhood  ?  Is  it  not  there  that  the  old 
ladies  take  their  pugs  for  their  constitutional  walks, 
and  is  it  not  there  that  the  young  ladies  play  tennis 
with  their  gentleman  acquaintances  when  they  come 
home  from  the  City  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  ? 

In  Ashbourne  Crescent  there  is  neither  Dissent 
nor  Radicalism,  but  general  aversion  to  all  considera- 
tions which  might  disturb  belief  in  all  the  routine  of 
existence,  in  all  its  temporal  and  spiritual  aspects, 
as  it  had  come  amongst  them.  The  fathers  and  the 
brothers  go  to  the  City  every  day  at  nine,  the  young 
ladies  play  tennis,  read  novels,  and  beg  to  be  taken 
to  dances  at  the  Kensington  Town  Hall.  On  Sunday 
the  air  is  alive  with  the  clanging  of  bells,  and  in 
orderly  procession  every  family  proceeds  to  church, 
the  fathers  in  all  the  gravity  of  umbrellas  and  prayer- 

Y 


338  MUSLIN 

books,  the  matrons  in  silk  mantles  and  clumsy  ready- 
made  elastic  sides  ;  the  girls  in  all  the  gaiety  of 
their  summer  dresses  with  lively  bustles  bobbing, 
the  young  men  in  frock-coats  which  show  off  their 
broad  shoulders — from  time  to  time  they  pull  their 
tawny  moustaches.  Each  house  keeps  a  cook  and 
housemaid,  and  on  Sunday  afternoons,  when  the 
skies  are  flushed  with  sunset  and  the  outlines  of  this 
human  warren  grow  harshly  distinct — black  lines 
upon  pale  red — these  are  seen  walking  arm-in-arm 
away  towards  a  distant  park  with  their  young  men. 

Ashbourne  Crescent,  with  its  bright  brass  knockers, 
its  white-capped  maid-servant,  and  spotless  oilcloths, 
will  pass  away  before  some  great  tide  of  revolution 
that  is  now  gathering  strength  far  away,  deep  down 
and  out  of  sight  in  the  heart  of  the  nation,  is 
probable  enough  ;  but  for  the  moment  it  is,  in  all 
its  cheapness  and  vulgarity,  more  than  anything 
else  representative,  though  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land  be  searched,  of  the  genius  of  Empire 
that  has  been  glorious  through  the  long  tale  that 
nine  hundred  years  have  to  tell.  Ashbourne  Crescent 
may  possibly  soon  be  replaced  by  something  better, 
but  at  present  it  commands  our  admiration,  for  it 
is,  more  than  all  else,  typical  England.  Neither 
ideas  nor  much  lucidity  will  be  found  there,  but 
much  belief  in  the  wisdom  shown  in  the  present 
ordering  of  things,  and  much  plain  sense  and  much 
honesty  of  purpose.  Certainly,  if  your  quest  be  for 
hectic  emotion  and  passionate  impulses,  you  would 
do  well  to  turn  your  steps  aside ;  you  will  not 
find  them  in  Ashbourne  Crescent.  There  life  flows 
monotonously,    perhaps    sometimes    even    a    little 


MUSLIN  339 

moodily,  but  it  is  built  upon  a  basis  of  honest 
materialism — that  materialism  without  which  the 
world  cannot  live.  And  No.  31  diners  a  little 
from  the  rest  of  the  houses.  The  paint  on  its 
walls  is  fresher,  and  there  are  no  flowers  on  its 
balcony:  the  hall-door  has  three  bells  instead  of 
the  usual  two,  and  there  is  a  brass  plate  with 
'  Dr.  Reed '  engraved  upon  it.  The  cook  is  talk- 
ing through  the  area-railings  to  the  butcher-boy  ; 
a  smart  parlourmaid  opens  the  door,  and  we  see 
that  the  interior  is  as  orderly,  commonplace,  and 
clean  as  we  might  expect  at  every  house  in  the 
crescent.  The  floorcloths  are  irreproachable,  the 
marble-painted  walls  are  unadorned  with  a  single 
picture.  On  the  right  is  the  dining-room,  a  mahogany 
table  bought  for  five  pounds  in  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  a  dozen  chairs  to  match,  a  sideboard  and  a 
small  table  ;  green-painted  walls  decorated  with  two 
engravings,  one  of  Frith's  '  Railway  Station,'  the 
other  of  Guido's  '  Fortune.'  Further  down  the 
passage  leading  to  the  kitchen  -  stairs  there  is  a 
second  room  :  this  is  the  Doctor's  consulting-room. 
A  small  bookcase  filled  with  serious-looking  volumes, 
a  mahogany  escritoire  strewn  with  papers,  letters, 
memoranda  of  all  sorts.  The  floor  is  covered  with 
a  bright  Brussels  carpet ;  there  are  two  leather 
armchairs,  and  a  portrait  of  an  admiral  hangs  over 
the  fireplace. 

Let  us  go  upstairs.  How  bright  and  clean  are  the 
high  marble -painted  walls  !  and  on  the  first  landing 
there  is  a  large  cheaply  coloured  window.  The 
drawing-room  is  a  double  room,  not  divided  by  cur- 
tains but  by  stiff  folding-doors.     The  furniture  is  in 


340  MUSLIN 

red,  and  the  heavy  curtains  that  drape  the  windows 
fall  from  gilt  cornices.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor 
there  is  a  settee  (probably  a  reminiscence  of  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel) ;  and  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place there  are  sofas,  and  about  the  hearthrug  many 
arm-chairs  to  match  with  the  rest.  Above  the 
chimneypiece  there  is  a  gilt  oval  mirror,  worth  ten 
pounds.  The  second  room  is  Alice's  study ;  it  is 
there  she  writes  her  novels.  A  table  in  black  wood 
with  a  pile  of  MSS.  neatly  fastened  together  stands 
in  one  corner  ;  there  is  a  bookcase  just  behind ;  its 
shelves  are  furnished  with  imaginative  literature, 
such  as  Shelley's  poems,  Wordsworth's  poems,  Keats' 
poems.  There  are  also  handsome  editions  of  Tenny- 
son and  Browning,  presents  from  Dr.  Reed  to  his 
wife.  You  see  a  little  higher  up  the  shelf  a  thin 
volume,  Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  and  next 
to  it  is  Walter  Pater's  Renaissance — studies  in  art 
and  poetry.  There  are  also  many  volumes  in  yellow 
covers,  evidently  French  novels. 

The  character  of  the  house  is  therefore  essentially 
provincial,  and  shows  that  its  occupants  have  not 
always  lived  amid  the  complex  influences  of  London 
life — viz.,  is  not  even  suburban.  Nevertheless,  here 
and  there  traces  of  new  artistic  impulses  are  seen. 
On  the  mantelpiece  in  the  larger  room  there  are  two 
large  blue  vases  ;  on  a  small  table  stands  a  pot  in 
yellow  porcelain,  evidently  from  Morris's ;  and  on 
the  walls  there  are  engravings  from  Burne  Jones. 
Every  Thursday  afternoon  numbers  of  ladies,  all  of 
whom  write  novels,  assemble  here  to  drink  tea  and 
talk  of  their  work. 

It  is  now  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.     Alice 


MUSLIN  341 

enters  her  drawing-room.  You  see  her  :  a  tall,  spare 
woman  with  kind  eyes,  who  carries  her  arms  stiffly. 
She  has  just  finished  her  housekeeping,  she  puts 
down  her  basket  of  keys,  and  with  all  the  beautiful 
movement  of  the  young  mother  she  takes  up  the 
crawling  mass  of  white  frock,  kisses  her  son  and 
settles  his  blue  sash.  And  when  she  has  talked  to 
him  for  a  few  minutes  she  rings  the  bell  for  nurse  ; 
then  she  sits  down  to  write.  As  usual,  her  pen 
runs  on  without  a  perceptible  pause.  Words  come 
to  her  easily,  but  she  has  not  finished  the  opening 
paragraph  of  the  article  she  is  writing  when  the 
sound  of  rapid  footsteps  attracts  her  attention,  and 
Olive  bursts  into  the  room. 

'  Oh,  Alice,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  couldn't  stop  at 
home  any  longer,  I  am  sick  of  it.' 

'  Couldn't  stop  at  home  any  longer,  Olive  ;  what  do 
you  mean  ?' 

'  If  you  won't  take  me  in,  say  so,  and  I'll  go.' 

'  My  dear  Olive,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  have  you 
with  me  ;  but  why  can't  you  stop  at  home  any  longer 
— surely  there  is  no  harm  in  my  asking  ?' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  don't  ask  me  ;  I  am  so  miser- 
able at  home ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  unhappy  I  am. 
I  know  I  shall  never  be  married,  and  the  perpetual 
trying  to  make  up  matches  is  sickening.  Mamma 
will  insist  on  riches,  position,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — those  kind  of  men  don't  want  to  get  married 
— I  am  sick  of  going  out ;  I  won't  go  out  any  more. 
We  never  missed  a  tennis-party  last  year ;  we  used 
to  go  sometimes  ten  miles  to  them,  so  eager  was 
mamma  after  Captain  Gibbon,  and  it  did  not  come 
on";  and  then  the  whole  country  laughs.' 


342  MUSLIN 

'  And  who  is  Captain  Gibbon  ?  I  never  heard  of 
him  before.' 

'  No,  you  don't  know  him  :  he  was  not  in  Gal  way 
in  your  time.' 

'  And  Captain  Hibbert !  Have  you  heard  from 
him  since  he  went  out  to  India  ?' 

'  Yes,  once  ;  he  wrote  to  me  to  say  that  he  hoped 
to  see  me  when  he  came  home.' 

'  And  when  will  that  be  ?' 

f  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  when  people  go  out  to  India 
one  never  expects  to  see  them  again.' 

Seeing  how  sore  the  wound  was,  Alice  did  not 
attempt  to  probe  it,  but  strove  rather  to  lead  Olive's 
thoughts  away  from  it,  and  gradually  the  sisters 
lapsed  into  talking  of  their  acquaintances  and  friends, 
and  of  how  life  had  dealt  with  them. 

e  And  May,  what  is  she  doing?' 

'  She  met  with  a  bad  accident,  and  has  not  been 
out  hunting  lately.  She  was  riding  a  pounding  match 
with  Mrs.  Manly  across  country :  May's  horse  came 
to  grief  at  a  big  wall,  and  broke  several  of  her  ribs. 
They  say  she  has  given  up  riding — now  she  does 
nothing  but  paint.  You  remember  how  well  she 
used  to  paint  at  school.' 

c  And  the  Brennans  ?' 

'  Oh,  they  go  up  to  the  Shelbourne  every  year, 
but  none  of  them  are  married  ;  and  I  am  afraid  that 
they  must  be  very  hard  up,  for  their  land  is  very 
highly  let,  and  the  tenants  are  paying  no  rent  at  all 
now — Ireland  is  worse  than  ever ;  we  shall  all  be 
ruined,  and  they  say  Home  Rule  is  certain.  But 
I  am  sick  of  the  subject.' 

Then  the  Duffys,  the  Honourable  Miss  Gores,  and 


MUSLIN  343 

the  many  other  families  of  unmarried  girls — the  poor 
muslin  martyrs,  whose  sufferings  were  the  theme  of 
this  book,  were  again  passed  in  review  ;  their  failures 
sometimes  jeeringly  alluded  to  by  Olive,  but  always 
listened  to  pityingly  by  Alice — and,  talking  thus  of 
their  past  life,  the  sisters  leant  over  the  spring  fire 
that  burnt  out  in  the  grate.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
silence  Alice  said  : 

'  Well,  dear,  I  hope  you  have  come  to  live  with  us, 
or  at  any  rate  to  pay  us  a  long  visit.' 


BILLING   AND   SONS,  LTD.,  PRINTERS,  GUILDFORD,  ENGLAND. 


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